


A Warm Life

by derekstilinski



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Family, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Blood, Non-Graphic Violence, Other, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:49:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 105,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25495636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/derekstilinski/pseuds/derekstilinski
Summary: Hank Anderson, retired and ready to live a quiet life with his service dog Sumo, wins an old mansion in an auction. It's creepy in a fun way, he thinks, the abandoned Victorian home. Until he uncovers secrets the mysterious Stern family left behind.(Russian translation now available!)
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 227
Kudos: 255





	1. doors in doors in history

**Author's Note:**

> This idea was originally supposed to be just thought vomit, me in my feelings, like ten tweets or less, and became... a lot more than I thought! Let's get into it 🦇🤙
> 
> EDIT: Sept. 30th 2020. Now translated to Russian, by SorrowPoet! https://ficbook.net/readfic/9900529/

Hank moves into an old house - bordering on a fucking mansion, honestly, that he won in an auction right after he retired.

He shows up at the place and realizes some of the old furniture is still there, beautifully done paintings of who he guesses were the last inhabitants of the home, or the old family the place was built for. Even the fucking original beds are there, grand canopies and all. It's creepy in a fun way, he thinks. He and Sumo do some cleaning and move on in. Over the next few days, he goes throughout the house checking things on a list that need work, knowing parts of the huge house will have to be closed off during the winter to save heat. He's picking favorite rooms to work around.

It seems like no one has lived in this house, let alone _been inside_ in years. He knows this especially when he reaches the basement and there's still wine in the wine cellar. Some of it from the 1800s. No fucking way they would've let him buy it for the price he paid if they knew the cellar was full of vintage drink worth probably a pretty penny a pop... He starts to wonder what the hell is wrong with this place.

He doesn't have to wait long to know. While inspecting things to fix, he stumbles over an old crate. He finds the wall to catch himself, and finds even more, a latch given as a false candelabra serves to click open a distant door down the cellar's hall.

The noise echoes like every horror movie Hank's ever seen.

So he leaves the goddamn cellar like any person with self preservation, and then, like all horror movie idiots, returns. Now, with Sumo in tow. Because that'll fix it.

He finds one of the wine racks doubling as a door, the wine sloshing in their bottles when he opens it up… to an almost pleasant looking Victorian parlor. Bookcases, cozy velvet chairs, embroidered rugs. There's even a teapot out, cluttered with cobwebs. It's surreal. And with his retired cop senses tingling, he’s realizing there are signs of a struggle. The carpet isn't quite right, a teacup is toppled over, an old book scattered on the floor. And when Sumo bounds in to have a look around, he sniffs at the rug and adjoining floor, then whines. That's when Hank sees the blood.

It doesn't even look like blood anymore. But it is. His years on the force tell him it is. He can feel the hairs on his arms standing on end, the lurch in his chest. He tells himself that, alright, there can't possibly be any danger. Centuries old house, hidden room that was locked. Nothing tangible can harm him. That's what gets him to keep looking around with a morbid sense of curiosity. Thinking there couldn't possibly be any danger from an 1800s sitting room where maybe some people fought once, once upon a time. Or some old aristocrat had a damn nose bleed. Who knows.

But he searches the room with interest, sneezing almost as much as Sumo at the dead air and dust. Maybe he should put in for this place to be a historical landmark, because he keeps reading about one family. Big in some kind trade or something, he's only gotten scraps of a story. 

Sumo is the one who ends up finding the room. The hidden room inside a hidden room inside a fucking surprise wine cellar. Hank should leave. He's smart enough to know to leave. All the padlocks on the door tell him it should probably stay locked.

The locks are so old. The locks are so old that Hank can break them to pieces with the tree cutting axe he brought with him when he moved. To the big, vacant house. In the woods. With hidden rooms and old blood on the floor.

Opening the door is hard. It's heavy like a bank vault, and doesn't have a door handle. He feels vaguely sick to his stomach. Like this is something he's not ready to do, but he couldn't live with himself - especially here in this house - without doing this. Without knowing what's behind the door. When he leverages it open with help from the axe, he flushes white as a sheet. A cold sweat wracks his entire body, he can feel ice at the tips of his fingers.

There are scratches on the inside of the door. That's what he notices first from pushing it open. Desperate scratches, like someone just about broke their fingers trying to get out. What hits him next is the realization that he doesn't smell death. He was a cop, he knows that. But there's none.

But what he notices next, is the coffin in the middle of the cell-like room. Besides the fact that it's beautifully adorned and well over a hundred years old, it's a coffin in the middle of a room that has scratches on the door and Hank wants to run.

"A fucking coffin? Really? What the fuck kind of people...?" It's so surreal he's almost mad about it. Like it's some kind of joke, ridiculous, that the original owners were some kind of freaks to just have shit like this.

He thinks, is this the kind of bizarre that rich folks in the 1800s would find funny? It has to be like that. Like, burying a Halloween store skull in the backyard for kicks, knowing someone else will find it years later and freak out. But in the end it'll just be zany old jokesters that get blogged about online. It's like that.

But Hank goes cold again, thinking, is someone in there? Is it not a joke? Is it fucked up? They should leave. People don't just find coffins in secret rooms inside secret rooms in their old mansions and just be okay with that. He should call Jeff. He should get a team in here. Get forensics in here. Get _someone_. 

They should go, now. Evidently, Sumo doesn't share in that. He ambles into the room to sniff around and Hank's heart almost stops because that feels so _not right_. That's not right. They should go.

But then Sumo barks. At the coffin. And he looks to Hank for help. He looks to Hank for help like a service dog does when something's wrong.

When someone's in need.

Hank is too shocked by it to think. That's not a response Sumo should be giving him. But he moves like he's not really in his body, into the room, and over to the coffin. Sumo wants him to open it, he paws at it insistently with such a pitiful whine. And suddenly Hank wants it open, too. He needs to know. He doesn't even need peace of mind if it's revealed nothing's in here, he just needs the truth. Because his brain will fill it in otherwise. It's so heavy and encased by time, that when he finally jerks it open, it's with a lot of effort and an almost desperate grunt. The cringing sound of the hinges opening after so long rings in his ears as he looks down.

Hank needs to call someone. Curled protectively in the coffin is a man in his mid thirties, skin gray and fragile as paper. His hair still holds some of that vintage coiffed appearance, and he looks... afraid, in his stillness.

What baffles Hank are three things.

One, there's actually someone in here. There was actually a body in the fucking coffin and he feels like a fool for thinking this could be a joke from the past inside his double secret room in his fucking creepy ass house.

Second, he knows this guy. There's a painting of him upstairs. There's actually more than one. There's even ones with differences, like blue or brown eyes and changes in height. Like some artist couldn’t make up their mind. Hank knows what this guy looks like alive, captured in oil paints on old canvas upstairs.

Third, and it fucking twists Hank's stomach something fierce, is that the guy doesn't look dead. Besides the skin color and the malnourished look and the absolute, one hundred percent stillness... the guy looks like he could tilt his head up and look Hank in the fucking eye.

And, you know, Hank should've expected to get fucked like this. He should have expected he'd fall right on his ass when the man in the coffin spits dust, tilts his head, and looks Hank in the fucking eye with blackness surrounding brown iris. Hank's fight or flight entirely fails him and he sits there frozen on the ground, listening to the rattling breaths of a not so dead man he found in a coffin. Sumo, the crazy fucking bastard, wiggles and whines and wants to help. He actually barks at Hank to get him to move.

Hank thinks he could stop existing by how badly he's stuck right now. But when an ashen hand with long, bony fingers creep over the side of the coffin, and a choked raspy voice stutters "Please... help me...? Help me..."

Hank moves.

He moves back towards the coffin, crawling, and peers over the edge while pushing Sumo's slobbery face away. The man looks so afraid. Of him. He can barely move and looks so different from the strong figure in the painting that Hank's heart violently jerks in his chest with sympathy pain.

"Please..." he whispers, barely there, jolting when Hank touches his fingers. The flinch shows Hank his teeth, and how sharp they are at the canines. He looks like he'd be crying, if he could, "Where's my brother? Help me... where's my brother?"

Hank all at once realizes he can't fucking call anybody. Who would believe him? He doesn't even believe himself, and he's currently living it.

He wonders if he's just lost it, as he tries his absolute best to be gentle getting this guy out of his - fuck - his _coffin_. His coffin. Poor thing weighs almost nothing and is simultaneously the heaviest Hank's ever lifted. And he's so cold. He feels like raw, shocked ice that gets stuck to your fingers and has Hank breaking out in goosebumps. He even makes a pitiful noise, like it hurts to move. Hank just tucks him in closer.

And that's his mistake.

As soon as he holds the man closer to his body, head towards his shoulder, there's a sudden clench in every muscle of the man's body. And Hank feels something sharp sink right through the meat of his shoulder. There's nothing but a shocking pressure-pain that dissolves into inky blackness, for a long time.

And when Hank comes to? He's on the floor of his hidden room inside a hidden room inside his old mansion home— and there's a musty coat folded under his head. Sumo at his side, the only warmth in the entire place, nuzzles his wet nose at his cheek. Hank has never been this cold in his life. The only other time he ever felt this cold was when he had to have... blood transfusions. For low levels. He still has them sometimes.

"I'm sorry." a voice says, raspy but not as weak as before. "I truly am, I did not mean to be so... uncivilized. I promise you're alright, just…"

"Cold." Is the only word Hank can muster at first, fingers weakly grabbing at Sumo's fur. "Hey..."

"I'm... I'm afraid neither of us can move yet. Forgive me, again."

Hank can just blearily open his eyes, seeing Sumo's lovely face, but then looks beyond him. Where that man is sitting slumped against his own coffin, traces of red on his mouth and fingers. The blackness of his eyes around deep chocolate brown makes him look entirely otherworldly in such an unsettling way. It doesn't help that the shadows throw the contours of his face into further unreal sharpness, and the dots in Hank's vision make things distort.

"Forgive...?"

"You don't have to right away." he promises, then shudders in a breath that sounds like the rattling heater in Hank's old car.

"What the fuck kind of assurance is that?" Hank whispers, words slurred. He pulls at Sumo's collar to get the dog's attention, "Sumo. Water."

Sumo jumps up and runs from the room. Hank hears him bounding up the stairs out of the cellar. The man looks almost frightened of Hank now that they're alone, as if he's not wearing Hank's blood on his now less ashen face, "I.. I don't know. Did you... you opened the door?"

"No, the dog did." Hank spits, trying his hardest to get himself up. It's like his body is void of any strength, veins holding a chill like they've been filled with new shit that’s not tempered to his body yet. It's like what the transfusions do to him, makes him feel weirdly hollow. He realizes all at once that not only are his hands numb, but so are his legs. Fuck's sake, is he really confined to the horror movie crawl? Trying to roll and push himself up is torture, his vision spins like a carousel. "God, I _can't move_. What did you do to me?"

"It was instinct, I... I've only had the reaction once before." he croaks, and Hank swears the man's bones crack like a lobster shell when he warily maneuvers Hank into a sitting position. "It won't happen again. Let me..."

Somehow the man helps Hank to his feet, the two of them stumbling into the wall, shakily hobbling their way into the parlor. When Hank twists his ankle he doubts he would've known if he hadn't started to fall.

All in all, they make it a measly six feet. Hank tumbles onto the ancient chaise lounger and puffs up all kinds of disgusting dust, and the man falls to the floor beside him. He thinks he hears a rib crack, sickening as all fucking hell.

"I'm sorry, I can't." The man says around grit teeth. Hank looks down at him, and if he had use of his body right now, he could probably snap this guy like peanut brittle. For all the _moments_ of strength this man seemingly has, he's still on death's door but obviously not fucking quite. Hank grunts, wishing his heart would stop thumping so heavy inside his head and in his damn throat. He feels like he's gonna be sick.

The man looks at him too, a suffering pinch to his brow.

The pause they take, where Hank's stomach is churning, and the man's sticky, cold as fuck fingers pull aside the wet shoulder of his shirt. More mistakes, because Hank obviously can't make enough today, he peers down too.

With the forming stain of diluted blood on his ripped shirt, the skin of his shoulder is already blooming with harsh bruises. And there's _holes_ , two jagged holes accompanied with the indents of teeth. But they're scabbing over with waxy new skin, which Hank finds fucking wild. Is the wetness on his shirt… spit? It's cold, which puts him in a worse mood.

The man's long fingertips linger on him, covered in his blood. It's like he's following along in a book, reading the invisible words of Hank's body. He sounds so gentle and sure when he whispers, "You'll be okay."

"How do you know that?" Hank squints at him, looking like he came out of a fucking murder mystery LARP. White shirt that's since weathered with time, fancy puffed tie with one of those brooches. Hank's eyes struggle to see the rose design with his swimming vision.

The man's eyes meet his and then swiftly he shrinks away. The clacking of Sumo's nails come down into the cellar again, and held gently in his mouth is Hank's water bottle. He struggles like hell to hold it in numb hands and pops the spout open with his teeth.

He takes maybe two swallows before his ears feel fuzzy and the room starts slanting. He's out before he realizes, the boof of Sumo's bark like it's underwater.

The fact of the matter is, Hank is fucked. No matter how he looks at it, he's fucked ten ways from Sunday. With the man from the coffin and the stupid secret rooms, whose got paintings upstairs in the creepy mansion Hank thought was fun, who made himself comfortable clamping his jaw on Hank like he was prime beef steak. 

He tried to help after. Apologized. Like you can apologize for springing up from your own coffin and almost sucking the goddamn life from someone. He tried to assure Hank he'd be okay, and _apologized_ so profusely Hank wanted to tell him to stuff it, because there's so much better information he could've been landed with. Hank's fucked, because somewhere in his brain he knows he can't get rid of him. He knows he can't just say no and be done, go on with his life in ignorance, just like he couldn't with the hidden doors.

Which leaves the only other option— helping him. So, while his head floats to weird places and his body goes through shock, he already knows. He's fucked.


	2. the fragility of men

Waking up is like feeling every hangover he's ever had, after being beaten outside the bar.

So, he's doing fine.

He almost snuggles right back into more sleep, if the smell of must and grime didn't beat him over the brain like a cartoon hammer, wheezing squeak and all. He's still in the parlor. Which he hates. Because that means it's real. He's sitting up before he really should for the express purpose of inflicting himself more pain. He pushes his fingers, now blessedly with feeling again, into his wounded shoulder. But... there's no pain.

Sure, it's a little tender, he's bruised. But there's no, y'know, wild open wound from ancient sharp teeth kind of pain. Because that's... normal.

Looking around, he seems all put back together besides the hangover feeling. Which is good and bad, for obvious reasons. He doesn't have to feel like shit, but he knows he _should_. Sumo is off to the side by a bookshelf, sitting and looking all kinds of happy. He gives Hank one of those tongue out squinty smiles, which means 'I've done a good job!'

What job he's done, Hank won't ask.

"Hey." he peers sideways into the divide between the rooms, at the fancy shoes and skinny legs on the floor. They immediately pull out of sight. "Hey, don't go hiding on me. Why are you still in there?"

That soft raspy voice hangs in the air, "I've been in here for so long..."

Hank shuffles a few hesitant steps over. The guy's sitting against a wall with his legs to his chest, and surprisingly, there's a scattering of wrappers. Snacks. He's still fiddling with a sandwich bag that has a leftover pancake in it.

"The dog." he provides, looking over at the sweet big lug watching from the doorway. "Sumo."

Sumo's ears perk happily. Of course he fed him.

"Of course he fed you." Hank sighs, and leans to give Sumo a pat.

"Do you work for my family?" The man asks suddenly, looking so goddamn small on the floor.

"I'm retired. Who _is_ your family?" Hank asks, then shakes his head, "No. Better - what the fuck were you doing in there? Who are you?"

The man stands up. He looks a lot healthier than he was. "My name is Connor... the eldest of the Stern children? Or… I was."

"What do you mean 'was'?" Hank snaps, wishing there would be a straight answer.

"They put me in here." Connor says, quiet. And all the bitching Hank was going to launch into evaporates as fast as all the moisture in his mouth. The mourning in Connor's tone is haunting. 

"What do you mean?"

"They… My parents. My uncle and aunt. When they found out what I was... they tricked me in here." Connor whispers, "That's why I didn't go upstairs. I didn't know if they were here…"

Hank's stomach drops, "I live here, bud. There's no one else."

He can't tell if the look on Connor's face is horror or relief. "My brother?"

"It's just me," Hank says, "and now you."

Connor's eyes flick towards the door to the outside, some kind of shiver running through him. He looks back to the coffin, eyes far away. "They left…?"

"Connor, I'd like an answer from you."

"With what?" Connor whispers, like it's not entirely obvious _what_.

He shakes his head, wishing he could decompress before dealing with this. "Well, you've got a bit to go in the looks department… You sound human enough…" he prompts, "But what are you, really?"

Connor's eyes soften, dirty hands rubbing together with nerves. Hank wants to put him in the luxury soaking tub upstairs, because _christ_ he's filthy. "I thought it was obvious."

Point fucking taken. But Hank needs the confirmation that he's actually in this, because that's the polite thing Connor could do. He gives his best expectant face, hoping it brings across the existential crisis.

"It was in the winter. I had been to town, gathering gifts for the upcoming holiday... I noticed a man had been following me." Connor's hand inches up to the side of his neck as he speaks, not looking Hank's way. "He asked about me, in ways men shouldn't in public to a young man, you know. I told him to speak to me with more respect if he wanted to keep his tongue. But I should have known something was off."

He squints like he's remembering every moment in vivid detail. Which makes Hank shift uncomfortably, almost wishing he hadn't asked and just. Accepted this.

"I didn't think about it. I went on with my day. My brother often got cold, so I took my axe out into the night, to chop wood for the fire. Mother wanted the help to do it, but Marlan was old and prone to chill as well. So I went."

He looks up at Hank now, with an unreadable expression on such a pale face that it almost makes Hank scared. "The man was there, in the woods. Black eyes," he gestures to his own like it's almost funny, "Sharp teeth. He tore a chunk out of my throat, and he left me bleeding, paralyzed in the snow. I didn't make it home that night... After it all, I still regret not bringing the firewood."

Hank scoffs, "You were attacked in the fucking woods by a lunatic."

"Not quite a _lunatic_ , sir. But something. I turned to ice in the fresh snowfall," he says, and the tone burns with bitterness, “Little did I know that protected me from the shining eyes of God come morning."

Hank winces. It rings something dreadful, but Connor recites it almost like a list. "I crawled my way home, steeped in my own blood like some sort of baptism, and my brother found me. He carried me inside, he saved me. And continued to save me."

The way Connor asked for his brother in some of his first words to Hank, seems significant more than ever now. The story is chilling, how Connor retells it with feeling not for his attack, but his own reactions. The inflection is just flat enough to make the hairs on Hank's arms prickle.

"And...?" Hank doesn't want to ask anymore. He doesn't want to hear it.

"And we'd heard rumors, stories, of the people that shuttered their homes from sunlight, drank in decadence from wine always too red." He gives Hank a joyless smile, "The vampiric, Mr. Anderson. Trapped forever by a new vice and the same, never-aging face."

Hank feels himself pale. Too beautiful a description for the violence it took. "I...? I never told you my name."

Connor's smile turns more genuine, his nose scrunching, "No. The dog did."

What a little shit. Sumo trots over, his tags clinking on his collar. All smiles, too. Hank feels shitty to be the only one not smiling. "Fucking christ."

"So," Connor smooths the wrinkles in his soiled shirt, trying to gather pride maybe. "Are you going to put me back in there?"

They both eye the coffin, adorned and beautiful and disgusting for what it is. It makes sense - and Hank fucking wishes it didn’t - that Connor would ask. It’s like he realizes he doesn’t have the power here, unless he wants to force his way out. But he doesn’t want to hurt Hank.

So Hank heaves a big sigh, and slams it shut. The noise booms in the small space, making them both jump like the two terrified, tethered people they are now.

"I've transitioned to acceptance already." he sighs, "And you need a fucking bath. Come on."

Connor fidgets, "Up?"

"Up."

Watching Connor hesitate on every step out of that basement is hard to watch. Like there's something coming for him in every swish of clothing or creak of the stairs. Sumo stays by his side the whole time, trying to push his nose into Connor's palm for a reassuring pet, but getting surprised every time his hand is cold. Hank gives an encouraging nod when he can, wondering just how much fear the home he used to be part of holds.

Connor builds some confidence, steps more sure. Enough to slip into the shadow between two beams of light in the hall with a fluid move. The ghost of a smile touches his face. "It's 12:45 in the afternoon."

Hank's eyes flick to his watch, "How'd you know that?"

"The sun is always here between the curtains at 12:45."

Connor learned the time by the sun he had to avoid in his own home. Hank doesn't have the heart to say anything to that. Connor passes a few more rays of light like that, but his steps falter when the hall opens up to the rest of the downstairs, where it's clear it's all wrong. And it's right back to those hesitant movements, not sure of what comes next. He picks at the upholstery of Hank's couch with confusion, and shies away from the television. One of the old couches is still sitting off to the side, and Connor touches his fingers to it, traces the edge of a stain in the fabric. Hank thinks Connor looks more like a ghost than anything else here.

Seeing his home in disarray, lined with dust and things so marred by time, it must be surreal. There's still cobwebs in the chandelier that Hank hasn't tended to yet. Connor lists slightly from side to side while he walks, like in a trance, and Hank realizes he doesn't know if Connor knows how much time has passed.

He tries to lead him along, tries to be soothing. "Hey. Connor, come on, the bathtub—"

"I know where it is." Connor snaps, but it just sounds broken. "I lived here."

Hank drops his outstretched hand with a low sigh. Right. He's at a loss, nothing he could say really has any chance of improving this. He can't offer anything but his presence as Connor carries himself from room to room like he's silently carrying the weight of the world. And Connor lingers. He lingers on small things. A crack in the wallpaper, a knick knack on a shelf. A place where something is supposed to be, but isn't. In those moments Connor looks those hundreds of years old.

It's not until Hank coaxes him into the foyer that he hears him at all. Hank's probably made it up two stairs when Connor's breath catches heavy in his throat. And when Hank turns, he thinks Connor's looking at the portrait of himself on the wall.

But Hank doesn't think he'd walk right into the line of the sun to reach for a picture of himself. The portrait has blue eyes. The line of the brow stern. A sob wrenches from Connor's throat as he grasps at the frame, like he's desperately trying to reach for them.

Hank swears under his breath and rushes over, briskly trying to pry Connor away, almost feeling the singe of his skin in the daylight while he pulls at a bony wrist. Connor fights him, weak when he shoves an elbow at his ribs, "No! No!"

"Connor, hell! Come on! Come on..." Connor's fingernails leave scratches in the wood when Hank wrenches him away, dragging him back into the shadow. A wail of pure agony pours from the depths of Connor's body. Hank feels it quake in his ribs where he's holding him up from weak knees. The sound knocks at Hank's spine like the resounding ring of a funeral bell, it fills him with dread and pain. The urge to cry springs to his face, prickles sharp under his skin.

Connor is limp in Hank's arms as he shudders in a breath, and screams like he's expecting an answer, "Richard!"

His voice echoes in the big house and all that meets them is silence. They stumble back into the wall, and with Connor's dead weight and the overwhelming feeling of _loss_ that chokes the air, Hank just lets them go down. They land heavy on the first few stairs and Hank simply holds him, not conscious of it enough to let go.

"I'm sorry." He means it.

Connor curls in on himself, hands hiding his face as he cries. "Please. Let me stay... let me stay."

Hank doesn't think those words are for him. No, they're far far away. He pushes against Hank's arms but Hank does not let him go. He cages him in like iron. He's freezing to the touch and it bites at Hank's fingers, but he holds firm.

Connor's heart bleeds into the room, abandoned by time along with him.

"Mother, please let me stay... please, don't... Richard..." he whispers, shaking like the feeling can't be held in his small body. "Help me, please..."

Connor's voice breaks into nothingness, aching wheezes of things that might be words are all that follow after.

"I'm sorry." Hank says again, eyes glued to the cobwebbed chandelier, voice tight in his throat while tears find their way into his beard.


	3. you believe i’m people

Neither of them could say how long they sit there at the base of the stairs. Time doesn't really mean anything when it's clear so much of it has already been lost. If Hank was a better thinker, he would've anticipated this. But all he'd been thinking of was getting Connor out of the same room as his own coffin. Coaxing him back into a regular space when he'd been forced into a nightmarish one for so long. You don't just leave victims at the crime scene.

Connor's cries go quiet after some time, the fight and sobs drain from his body. His head rests on Hank's forearm and the two of them probably make a kind of renaissance style painting, twisted in relaxed struggle like they are. Hank's back starts to spasm from sitting on the goddamn stairs with his legs akimbo, so he drags his arm across his face to clear away the tears, and gently shifts Connor in his arms. His eyes are open but seemingly unseeing, face worryingly vacant.

"Come on, now." Hank murmurs, voice crackling with cries he didn't give. He manages to get them upright, with Sumo helping to serve as leverage the way he was trained. Connor goes but it's not like there's any thought in it— simply moving because he's being moved. Knowing from experience, Connor's far from the harsh reality and deaf to most things in the world.

Hank slowly takes him up the stairs, because Connor needs better than he's gotten all these years. If all Hank can do is offer him a hand up right now, he'll grab on with both and try his best.

In one of the many bathrooms, Hank's taken to this one, he settles Connor down and squeaks the faucet on. The old pipes clang and shake, the water comes out too hot. Always does, Hank's realized. But he'd rather have it steaming than not. Plus, he's definitely sure Connor could use the warmth.

He doesn't think much before crumbling in some luxury shit to soften the water, chamomile blooming in the air. Connor hasn't moved an inch. Hank wonders how easy that is for someone like him.

He makes sure the bathroom curtains are drawn fully and signs a command to Sumo, before he kneels in front of Connor perched on the closed lid of the toilet. God. Can his clothes even go through the wash? He gently touches a cufflink, "Hey. It's all ready for you... There anything specific you might need?"

Connor watches his hand, chest moving so slowly it makes Hank squint to be sure he's breathing. He notices Hank takes the time to check. It makes him ache. Someone else used to do that, too. Richard would watch him like a hawk and a fluttering baby hummingbird at the same time. Connor mourns that he'll never be looked at like that again. Hank's is more wary than anything and he longs for the softness of a gaze, of his only family.

But he relaxes the line of his mouth and gives Hank the ghost of a smile for the effort, "You don't have to ask after the needs my condition affords me."

Connor expects Hank to turn embarrassed, to shy away and duck out of his presence.

He doesn't expect Hank to double down, and seem offended on top of it.

"Now, hold on. Your _condition_ isn't what I was asking about. I was asking about _you_." he huffs, left knee cracking when he shifts. It rings in Connor's sensitive ears. "It's not about your condition, it's about the world around you."

Connor's... taken aback. By the tone, yes, but also the persistence. The care. It wells uneasy in his gut that he's been shown such uncare that he's become uncomfortable in the lack of it. "I'm not sure how to reply."

"You don't have to. I just—" Hank sighs, rubs his temple. Big fuckin' headache on the horizon, his body is crying and his mind needs to stop spinning the centrifuge faster or he's gonna lose it.

"I just want to make it—" Better. He can't fucking say better. Because he can't make it better. He looks up at Connor. "Easier."

Connor slowly, ever so slowly, like he's giving Hank time to pull away, touches the back of his hand. He only gives a whisper, "If you know how to... warm some blankets...?"

The line of Hank's shoulders relax. "Yeah. No, yeah, that's easy."

Connor thinks it kind to assure, even though he knows it takes quite a bit. Sumo gently nudges his way between them, depositing the fluffy towel held in his mouth onto Connor's knee. Then he waits to be pet, which Hank grants immediately. He still looks to Connor afterward, and Connor gently strokes along his head, "Too kind."

Hank lets him alone after, to bathe in privacy and be with his thoughts. Sumo hesitates at the closed door but Hank calls him to come back down the stairs with him, promising a treat for lunch.

It's weird. Definitely. Hank's gotten used to living alone. So just knowing there's another person about sort of pulls his senses to the room he knows Connor's in. Like he's waiting for something. He picks out and tosses some blankets in the dryer for Connor, makes lunch and starts up tea and can't really shake it, even as he's rationing out a little snack for Sumo. When he brings the tray into the living room, he pauses to look at the portrait of Connor's brother on the wall. They look so similar, at least as well as he can tell. He shuts the curtains giving light to Richard's likeness, then settles down into his usual seat on the couch.

Connor doesn't have as much strength as he could, so when he lowers himself into the steaming bathtub that used to be so new, he simply sits. The water is slippery soft and the heat bites against his cold skin, crackling nerves to life. When he starts to scrub, he ignores the rawness of his skin and savors when he goes even the littlest bit red. It's been so long since he really flushed red.

The water turns a muddy color from all the dirt and grime he'd be subjected to that final night. He washes the years from himself and wonders if he'll be the same. He knows from experience that his temperature has risen from being in the water, and Hank's soaps are a little odd, but he's seemingly more human when he steps out of the bath. He pads barefoot out into the hall, with the towel held loosely around himself. It's incredibly cozy, but he longs for his lavender shirt with the fish pin, it's always been his favorite.

But his bedroom is not the same as it was. The bed is covered in a dank sheet and the rug is missing. When he opens his wardrobe, little remains. The shirt isn't there, nor is a good amount of his jewelry. He manages to find a pair of pants he remembers being fond of, and one of his formal shirts. It's a bit silly, the black silk, but it beats being naked. He's upset he'll be so underdressed in Hank's company, his father would've chastised him for the indecency around high class men his senior…

He doesn't feel so bad after thinking about that.

He won't mourn his private space now, his mind still so numb with Richard's faded portrait. Still with bare feet and missing the embellishments of norm, he… almost nervously, returns to Hank. And that's when he sees Mr. Anderson feeding his dog off the same plate as himself, and he once again wonders about this man. He buys this family mansion all on his own, but he shares his plate with his animal?

The only announcement of his presence is when an old floorboard squeaks under his scant weight, and Hank looks up at him for a long moment before finally speaking. "Hey… that's, ah…"

"Yes?" he asks, smoothing his shirt out of habit.

"You look better— healthier." Hank finishes, his attention pulling away when Sumo tries to playfully gnaw on his fingers. He's forgotten his job, he understands, and offers another baby carrot slathered in peanut butter to the big baby.

"It'll fade." Connor says before he can really catch himself, and ducks from Hank's concerned gaze. He gives Richard a glance before drawing nearer to Hank, "…Why is he eating with you?"

"Because I made it for him." Hank answers, gentle when Connor thought he'd be snapped at for his tongue. "Why?"

"I... Beasts weren't allowed in the dining room, let alone at a table."

Hank laughs, which is. Odd. He pulls aside a pillow, opening a space for Connor to sit. "What kinda tight-ass said that?"

"My father."

Hank looks unsure, "Oh, uh…"

"Imagine what he said about me." Connor gives a bitter smirk, lowering himself onto the couch. It's surprisingly bouncy! The upholstery feels foreign.

Hank answers with a small smile, strung with understanding. "Well, Sumo's a good boy, and he goes where I go."

"Ah… I'd have to agree." he says, a little more quietly. Hank almost looks at ease with him, then seemingly remembers himself and stiffens again.

"I made tea." Hank offers, fumbling with one of the old teacups he found in the cupboard. Connor's only drink has been, well, _him_ since who knows how long, and Hank almost forgets to offer? Fuck.

Happily, Connor looks interested. He pours them cups and Connor takes about three times the sugar Hank would classify as 'too much', and honey on top of that. When he sips it too soon, the granules crunch under his teeth. Hank wonders about his teeth.

"Is there anything you want to ask?" Hank makes himself talk, because Connor still looks a few miles away. To complete the look, he tucks his feet under himself and takes a while before a question bubbles up.

"You... don't know or work for my family, you live here alone, and offer tea to vampires... Who are you, Mr. Anderson?"

Hank chuckles softly, his teacup looking too small between his large hands, "Hank, please. Only nurses and kids try and call me Mr. Anderson."

Connor cocks his head, eyes soft. A first name basis is… nice. "Hank."

"I'm a retired police Lieutenant, a father of one, divorced." Hank shrugs, "I wanted a change, and this place pretty much fell in my lap. I won it in an auction, I made the bid on impulse and no one bid against me… I was here two days before I found you."

"Did you look in every room?"

"That's what I was doing when I found all the secret shit in the basement."

Connor's brows raise and he nods gently, "I wasn't meant to be found."

"Well, I'm fuckin' glad I did." he says immediately, exasperated. Sleeping in this place while Connor was trapped in a coffin a couple floors down is chilling, he can't believe it happened. Connor looks away from him, and Hank looks away too. The room buzzes with silence for a very long minute, and Hank kinda wishes the floor would eat him. "What about you, Connor?"

Connor huffs as if asking is ridiculously funny, and shakes his head. "Huh. Not used to explaining myself... Oldest of two children. Richard," He gestures to the other room, "He's my brother, grew much taller than me... before I couldn't grow anymore. My grandparents established shipping trade across the lakes,”

“Grandfather was kind, if stern, like the name suggests. Grandmother had a flair for clairvoyance... I wonder if she saw my change coming. Always doted on me extra." A wistful expression washes Connor's face and he sighs, "My father inherited it all, but he wasn't very good at business. Mother was better, and she ran it for him."

"And what about you?" Hank asks, watching his slim finger trace the rim of his teacup.

"I couldn't be much of anything condemned to shadow, Hank." he answers, feeling the bitterness in his throat. Luckily it's a long way down and easy to swallow. A sip of the lemon tea Hank's provided is taken.

"And before?"

Connor shrugs, "I assumed I'd take over the business, being the oldest. Surely my misbehavior never damaged that... Richard was softer, but he thought impulsively because he was so filled with joy at things. Father didn't favor that. It would've been me."

"I'm sorry." Hank says. And once again he means it, so goddamn much.

Connor shrugs him off, instead hesitantly offering a hand to Sumo, who is all too happy to lay his head right into that chilly palm. Silence lapses again, and Hank itches to offer something more. He itches to turn on the damn TV, but Connor doesn't know what a TV is. He wonders if Connor always had a strained relationship with his parents, or the tone he takes while talking about them is from what they did to him. And what Richard did to be his golden light, besides obviously loving him enough to spark such beauty and protectiveness in Connor's tone for him.

"Thank you," Connor says, unexpectedly into the openness of the room, "For... asking about my comfort."

Ah, for back in the bathroom. Hank feels himself wince. "No, it's fine… I'm sorry I snapped. My kid's disabled. So it's second nature for me to ask when the world isn't made for certain kinds of people."

Connor sounds surprised, "You believe I'm people."

"After that bath, you look more like people."

That's the first time he ever sees delight on Connor's face. It lights him up, and Hank finds himself looking, even when Connor's no longer looking at him. Off in another room, the dryer gives a loud, droning beep to signify it's done. Connor starts like he's heard a gunshot.

"Hey, it's all right." Hank takes the teetering teacup from the couch back to its tray before he gets up. Connor's neck cranes to watch him disappear.

The old washing room was updated some years ago for machines, which Hank's forever grateful for. When he comes back with two warm blankets, Connor just about melts into the couch when they're laid over him. "How did you do this so quickly? You didn't even light a fireplace. You…"

Hank waves him down, settling into his spot again and stretching his legs, "I'll explain that all soon enough…"

And he does. Connor sleeps on the couch that night and during the next day, Hank goes through the most critical updates he can think of. Technology, mostly, because the wifi is being set up legit tomorrow and Connor can't eat the technician. They go through a bit of history too, but Connor seems to want to stay away from that. He'd rather marvel about the little speaker that plays Beethoven from Hank's phone. Connor remembers when the symphonies were new.

Fuck.


	4. knowledge new and old

Hank doesn't trust the washing machine to handle Connor's clothes, so he washes them by hand in the sink while Connor is searching for more of his things throughout the house.

It's like rifling through his family's belongings. Hank had claimed a guest room, so he doesn't spend any more time there than to search an old dresser. The other guest rooms give him things like a perfume bottle, a pair of stockings, musty embroidered pillows that he hopes can be saved. There’s various pieces of bedding, and a vanity that he can't see himself in. Just a ghostly outline, as if he's made of the barest fog and shifting like a shape under water. It puts a pit in his stomach and tightens his chest, just like it used to, except now he doesn't have Richard to assure him he still looks nice. He hasn't seen himself as more than a wisp in so long, clarity is lost to him.

His parents' room is filled with things. Covered paintings, furniture, chests. It's incredible, some of his mother's dresses are here. His father's clothes as well. He's happy about them for their wearability but spends more time with his mother's things, smoothing back crumpled lace and remembering what she looked like when he helped her get ready. Before he was feared.

Richard's room is locked. He stands there with his hand on the doorknob for a long time, forehead pressed against the wood. He asks Hank but he didn't get a key. Hank even calls the auctioneers, asking after it. They don't have it.

Hank says they could break it open. Connor doesn't have the heart to do that.

His own room is still barren, as if walking in and out would change its fate. He uncovers his bed and sees it still made, with his favorite blue coverings. Under the bed are a few boxes, not unlike the cardboard box Hank gave him to put loose items in while he searched. Looting through them, he finds knick knacks and trinkets and a clock that should be on his bedside table. There's a few pieces of jewelry, wrapped in a messily mended shirt. The odd threading at the breast suggests embroidery and all at once he's pushing the jewels aside to flip the shirt inside out.

It's Richard's work. Clumsy. Undisciplined. Crude. Connor's eyes fill with tears while his fingers trace the colorful threads, weaved to look like wildflowers. It’s beautiful. He wonders if the same flowers still grow in the backyard. His whole body weighs heavier than an anchor on one of his grandfather's ships. He can't do this again. He tucks the old thing away and narrowly misses some silverware when he tries going through the last box.

It makes him a little angry, he’s too upset. It gives him a stomp as he descends the stairs and finds Hank in the kitchen, opening some sort of pasta in glass tupperware. He sets the box down with a rattling thump. "I require your help, Hank."

"Hey, what's got you huffy-puffy?" Hank mumbles around his food, handing off his fork to Connor to pull the box forward. He hums while he appraises the goods, taking out a weathered butter knife, "Craftsmanship, damn. It's..."

He looks for Connor's agreement, but just sees him grimacing harder.

Then he fucking gets it.

"Oh, that's fucking real?"

Connor huffs. Hank starts taking all of the silverware out in bundles, setting it away from him, "Shit, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I don't know which legends are true. You need me to handle anything else?"

Connor cracks a tired smile, "Such language with you."

"Am I being super inappropriate?" Hank keeps realizing he doesn't know shit. Like he missed the history and vampire lectures and therefore will fail the midterm. Connor's his disappointed professor not being paid enough for this shit.

"Not unpleasantly so." Connor answers, sounding some kind of way. Hank almost drops an adorned tin and Connor's reflexes are fast enough to catch it. The box is a mishmash of things, from old bars of carved soap to dusty bullets. Connor's happy about his candlestick holder being found, along with an old invitation to a party he remembers attending, and smiles when Hank dumps the silverware into a plastic bag and zips it closed.

"These can go in the basement." he promises, leaning near Connor's shoulder to read the paper, "You knew a fucking _viscount_?"

"He was charming." Connor nods, hands gentle and fond when he folds the fragile paper again. His fingertips still look discolored and Hank worries. Maybe unnecessarily, if Connor's just like that. But being made of worry, Hank's incapable of not utilizing it.

His eyes linger on Connor, "Bet he was... Eat some pasta salad, if you're into that."

"From your plate?"

He can't tell if it sounds surprised or just curious, there's a certain amount of bewilderment in there.

"Whatever you want, bud!" he yells, already halfway down the hall.

When the sun fades and makes way for the beauty of the moon, Connor peers out the windows. He thinks to himself how he hasn't smelled the wind and felt grass under his feet in an age. Hank's watching him. He knows Hank tries not to, to give him privacy and space. But he feels it. It doesn't feel all bad. He used to live to be looked at, sometimes. He liked it. He had to relearn that, after his change, but it had been fairly easy for a time.

So, no, he doesn't always feel that uneasy prickle under his skin when he knows Hank's gaze has centered. And that's nice.

When he goes to the back door, he hears Sumo following in excitement. The feeling of walking out the door with the gentle coolness of night to meet him is like visiting an old friend. His steps are silent as he crosses the overgrown lawn, tipping his head up towards the sky. The stars are the same as he remembers. That's a comfort he didn't know he needed.

Sumo is bounding through the grass around him, but giving space and quieting his enthusiasm when he nears. So sweet. He runs his fingers over the dog's floppy ears, "How I wish I could know if the lake was still flowing. I'd go there. Swim in the moonlight."

Sumo pants, his tail swishing long blades of grass to and fro. He looks pleased.

"We could go look for it sometime." Hank's voice rumbles along the cascade of the breeze, and Connor twists to see him leaning in the doorway. "At sunset, maybe?"

"That would be most kind, Hank." he whispers, gazing back up at the sky. "Did they _really_ go up there? Into the stars?"

"Sure did. Boots on the moon." Hank muses.

"...Tomorrow, after the man is gone, may I read about it on your... contraption? Machine?" he asks, knowing he should have remembered the device's name.

Hank just nods. "Of course, long as you like."

He smiles faintly. He wishes the grass was cut so he could lay against the earth and marvel at the men on the moon.

Connor stays outside for such a long time, pacing the grounds, squinting at the power lines framing the street. Sumo brings him a stick to throw. Hank leaves him a cup of steaming tea on the porch. He breathes the dust out of his lungs and loses hours happily. Hank spends time before bed in a deep dive of focus. Prescription readers on, he looks into as many vampire legends as he can.

Some of it is obvious bullshit - he thinks, anyway. If Connor can turn into a bat, he'll pass out. He gets a lot of romance novels in the search and hopes Connor never discovers that's a thing. He goes into the depths of some sites, ones that celebrate and damn them alike. He feels a little silly, but he pays special attention to old stories that claim to be a family member or lover of someone like Connor, to see if any of his behavior correlates. It could provide _something_ to help Hank understand him better.

He really comes out of it more flustered than anything, some of it is really tinged in hungers that aren't about filling Connor's stomach.

That's. He doesn't need that. He thinks around 3am he hears the dryer buzz and Connor's yelp of surprise, then footsteps quickly up the stairs. He vaguely thinks back to taping instructions for use onto the dryer because Connor wanted so badly to know how, before he rolls back over and goes to sleep again. Connor sleeps well through the morning. Hank runs by the grocery store and then the butcher, and has a super awkward conversation about if he could purchase the bloodiest meat they've got.

Hank goes home with raw pork chops floating in... well, y'know. The butcher is kind enough to tell him to enjoy making traditional blood pudding. To soften that he weirded them both out. Hank's eternally grateful. He puts it all in the fridge and grimaces at it next to his slice of lemon meringue pie, but it's food for his new housemate!

Oh, god. That's what he is, huh? His partiality nocturnal, lethargic, weird-diet-having housemate. Not so unlike college, really.

The cable tech comes in and looks spooked as all hell, eyeing Richard's portrait in the foyer and the absolutely haunted house looking sitting chair Hank dragged up from a back room. Just because he can, he directs the tech into the appropriate rooms with a firm, "Don't look at Richard."

The guy's probably never worked so efficiently.

Hank can see Connor nestled in a doorway, half hiding while he stares. He doesn't know if Connor plays up the creepy vibes like tilting his head in sharp little movements, and curling his long fingers over the door frame. But when Hank makes a tasteful biting gesture while the guy works, Connor snorts.

"My dog." Hank assures, as if Sumo wasn't on the other side of the room from where the noise came. Hank tips him extra for coming out all this way, and watches him all but run.

Connor scurries out to look at the new wires and little glowing box, "The lightning threads give us the invisible cover of power."

Hank's so proud. "Exactly right."

Hank sits down with him and tells him all about how to run his laptop. Basic searches, how the mouse works, not to use his credit card info - whatever a credit card is. He's more enraptured by Hank sitting next to him on the couch. He's huddled near as they crowd the device and sometimes his knee will brush Connor's. He realizes how much it means to him all at once that Hank knows what he is and will still leave space not between them, but on either side of them.

He lays his hand on Hank's forearm, feels the thrum of him under the skin. And Hank doesn't pull away. "I'm sorry, could you explain it to me again?"

Hank doesn't miss a beat, " _This_ will give you all the Beethoven you want, and this..."

Connor smiles. He doesn't mention the growing ache of hunger taking hold in his gut, and just listens to Hank's voice.


	5. eat from my plate

Connor wakes to the sound of a monster outside the house. It's continual snarling and sputtering is terrifying, and he runs from his bedroom still wrapped in his blanket.

"Hank?" He calls, from the top of the stairs. No reply comes. "Hank?!"

Sumo slides into the room, head craned up to see him from the first floor, ears perked.

"Where's Hank?" he asks because he knows the sweet thing can understand him, being as smart as he is. Sumo barks and wiggles to one side, then sets off. He follows. Sumo brings him to the back door. Where the monster's roar is loudest. He peeks out the curtained window, the backsplash of sunlight not as bad as direct. Hank is on some sort of metal animal that's tearing up the grass. It's shaking him!

"Hank!" He can't be heard over the noise. He doesn't know what's going on and it terrifies him. That's what makes him shield himself with his blanket and open the back door. Sumo doesn't follow. That is worrying.

He fumbles his way out onto the porch, then down the stairs onto the patch of fresh cut grass. "Hank! Hank!" Lifting his arm from the blanket is completely driven by anxiety, feeling the burn on his uncovered hand as it meets the sun. He waves frantically, "Hank!"

All at once, the roaring stops. There's some creaking from across the yard and Connor's body trembles with adrenaline. Has the beast seen him? Two big hands enclose his, "Connor! What the fuck are you doin'?"

Relief floods his body with more euphoria than a good, long drink and burns tears in his eyes. "What was that _thing_?! It's like hell itself! Ripping apart the ground and jostling you."

"Connor..." Hank sounds heartbroken and confused. It shocks him to his core when arms wrap around him, a hand trying to find his head under the cover of quilt to cradle him close. Hank's hug is firm. "I was just mowing the lawn. It's, it's a machine. I was driving it."

Connor doesn’t know what to say, he needs a moment to comprehend it. Hank starts to herd him back to safety, "I didn't think. I— the other night, watching you outside... I thought you'd appreciate a space."

Connor lets Hank drag him, all the way through the door. Blanket off his head, he shudders in a deep breath. "You were doing that for me?"

Hank looks so alive from being outdoors, the sheen of sweat and flush from the sun. He's looking at Connor like he's personally hurt him. "Yeah, but I didn't think I'd make you fuckin' cry. Jesus, Con..."

He swipes his fingers over the dark, vulnerable skin under his eyes and finds, yes, one sludgy and clear tear barely drawing down each cheek. He hastily wipes them away. "I thought you were in danger."

"Connor, I'm sorry." Hank burns with a certain measure of embarrassment and shame, Connor's eyes round with so many emotions. It hits him even deeper when he realizes Connor's hand is burnt. He caused this being oblivious. "Ah. Fuck _me_."

Connor looks at him wildly. He misses it, but it happens. He's too busy leading Connor by the hand towards the half bath, rifling through a cabinet for first aid. "The language..." Connor whispers, just before a hiss as Hank slathers ointment across the back of his hand.

"Connor, I can't…I can't even start saying how sorry I am. I just, I checked on you and you were fast asleep… I thought it was okay, I wanted to surprise you…"

The rigid line of his body softens as Hank speaks, discomfort not gone but almost, almost forgotten. "It's alright because I already forgive you." he says, beneath Hank's panicking voice.

Hank's frantic eyes meet his, and everything pauses. It seems like it takes Hank a moment to comprehend the words, then his hand slides incredibly warm over Connor's shoulder, squeezing. He can feel it through the silk, like the heat coming off a fire.

"I'm just glad this wasn't worse." Hank's saying, raising his injured hand. He sets to wrapping it after that with some gauze, "Are you gonna be okay if I finish the yard?"

"Oh. Yes, yes I think so." Connor feels a little rattled, from waking to Hank's proposition to him readying to leave again. "I think I'm sufficiently awake now. Maybe I can prepare something for you to eat?"

"Ah, you don't have to—"

"Let me."

Hank tapes the gauze closed and Connor's hand lingers in his, like some kind of tether between them, compelling him to just take the damn slice of kindness Connor's trying to give. He finds it easy to give in to this man, and maybe it should worry him, but it's comfortable to do.

"Whatever you want." he says, and fuck... he doesn't mean to sound so gentle.

But the soft smile he gets in return is really something.

He goes back out to finish the yard while Sumo hangs around Connor like a delighted shadow. Connor stares at the blood in the fridge with a pull of dread. Now that the excitement is over, the parched feeling that's crawling up his throat hisses for his attention. He was spoiled before, drink whenever he needed it. He only had to go for animals once, and did so happily, brought the body back like some kind of esteemed hunter for the dinner table. Or, rather, the small gathering around the kitchen counter with Richard and the house staff.

Hank is kind to try... though he already knows it'll taste different and the effect won't last. But he should not be picky, not when Hank has given him so much already. He puts it out of his mind as best he can, and manages to boil Hank some eggs and prepare thin slabs of ham. He still doesn't like the electric toaster, he wishes the manual toaster was still around. It puts a fright in him whenever it's done. He's not bitter about it, of course not...

Sumo waits at his feet and he thinks no one can say he's an oblivious man. When he kneels down to greet the dog, it's with a warm roll of ham between his fingers. "Do not tell Hank. This is our secret."

To his credit, Sumo looks trustworthy. Especially when he's eating ham.

When Hank returns, Connor has set out his plate and, huh, poured him a heavy glass of wine. He guesses the solid gold egg stands were found in a box somewhere. The plate isn't Hank's, it looks like expensive hand painted china. Christ. And Connor gives him the brightest smile.

"You can eat from my plate.” He says.

And Hank does, taking Connor's bits of advice on how to crack eggs. He offers some food, but Connor doesn't eat. He only pours and empties glasses of wine. He wonders why Connor didn't put together actual sustenance for himself, and wants to ask, but Connor starts the conversation about unpacking their boxes and cleaning up the house, and Hank knows it means a lot to him. He makes promises on promises just to see him determined to make changes for the better.

He wonders if it would be wrong of him to get a locksmith in here, to open Richard's room. He doesn't think that's in his hands to see through, it's Connor's. Which means he makes the decision easy, to make that jump as easy as possible - to find a way for Connor to go outside. It’ll take some time, but he’ll find a way.

Cole calls Thursday morning with a knowing tone in his voice, "Dad, did you forget I was coming today?"

Hank all but launches himself out of bed. "No! No way. Maybe a little. Fuck, things have been... busy."

"Well, make it un-busy, because you're due and you're not getting out of it." Cole says, holding back a laugh at the obvious panic tidying and all that huffing and puffing his father is doing. "Don't strain yourself. I'm excited to see this new place you've moved into."

"Oh honey, I hope that excitement keeps." He's also hoping his voice doesn't give away how much of a crisis he's having. "I'll see you when you get here! Bye, I love you, bye!" He hangs up and skids his phone across the top of the dresser as he pulls himself into his sweatpants. "Connor!"

Admittedly, swinging into a mythical predator of legend's bedroom at whatever time in the morning sounds obviously like a bad idea. Hank seems to almost never be in possession of a good idea.

So when he bursts through the door of Connor's room and finds him entirely naked in bed next to the space heater Hank had given him, he realizes he probably should have knocked. Like he really should've fucking knocked. Connor's propped up on fancy pillows and miles of pale skin and, to his credit, doesn't look as alarmed as Hank feels.

Connor takes in Hank's panting, shirtless form in a way only he could in the darkness that shrouds his bedroom, and slowly props up a knee. "You've come for me, finally?"

Hank's mind is filled with a fog that wants to choke the life out of him. He swiftly looks away, squinting at the space heater and _absolutely not_ still seeing Connor's form in his periphery. "Jesus, I'm fuckin'... My son's coming to visit. He's gonna be here soon. I entirely fucking forgot and you needed to know beforehand."

"Ah," Connor gingerly grabs for his blanket, pulling it over himself. The whole movement is stiff. "I'm glad I now know. What do we need to do for his arrival? Perhaps a meal?"

Hank is internally screaming while sirens shoot off in his head. "Connor, no, this is different..."

"Different? How so?" Connor tries to get out of bed. It looks like it takes him a lot of effort. He's so sluggish that he can't even get himself all the way to his feet, and Hank barely steps to steady him before he lands heavily back onto the bed with a dull wince.

"Woah, hey." He's bitterly cold when Hank reaches for his shoulder, and it sends a shrill feeling through Hank's stomach. Connor looks eerily pale again. "What's wrong with you? What's going on?" He goes stupid and lays a hand over Connor's forehead out of habit.

"I'm perfectly fine, Hank." Connor says.

Like a liar.

Hank gives him a Look, one of those ' _I know you're bullshitting_ ' looks. "Connor..."

He reaches for Connor's hand thinking he can try to get him to open up. Maybe holding his hand can make Connor just agree, like it had done to Hank, if he's a big softie like Hank evidently is. As soon as he squeezes, Connor flinches away.

He's still got the bandage on. Hank gently draws him back by his wrist and Connor makes a hesitant noise in his throat. "Hank, please…"

"It's not any better?" He unwraps the discolored gauze around Connor's bony hand, and immediately hates this morning a hundred times more. "It's worse."

"It's fine." Connor tries, as if Hank would agree to that. His eyes are darker, shadowed, when Hank looks at him.

"If you say it's fine one more time, I'm not gonna believe you on much else." he huffs. Where yesterday it was a burn of reddened, tightened skin - today it looks like someone took a hammer to Connor's hand. He's sure it's painful, he's sure Connor's other burns were healing better than this. "Was it something I did? The medicine I put on it?"

"No." Connor whispers quickly, watching the way Hank's thumb is stroking his wrist.

"Well, I can't think of much else." he doesn't mean to snap. He's just worried, and it's not like he can have Connor looked at by a medical professional, can he?

…Can he? He shakes his head to himself more than anything, then with his knees popping, he stands and quickly takes himself downstairs. Maybe the medicine didn't work, but he can try one other thing. Especially if Connor doesn't want to share any information.

He grabs the blood from the fridge. The pork chops were already taken out, thank god, so he doesn't look too much of an idiot when he marches back upstairs and pops the top. Connor looks like he's about to disappoint him. He doesn't think about that. "Come here."

Connor lets him near, and when Hank dips his own fingers into the container and gathers blood on his skin, Connor wonders if the universe is out to get him. More than usual, anyway. But Hank takes his hand again and gently - such big hands but so, so gentle - he rubs at the burn like this could be better medicine. Connor feels his throat tighten with his lurching stomach. Hank is _trying_.

"Does that do anything for you?" Hank asks him, and he wants to lie.

"Yes, I think that's quite beneficial. Thank you, Hank."

So he lies.

And Hank looks at him like he knows it's a lie. Hank looks like it hurts him.

But then there's a knock at the door and Hank can't question him on it anymore, and so he's told quickly he might smell some odd things and to just ask if he needs help. To please ask if he needs _anything_. Connor just gives him a smile, and holds the container that pulls more enticing than yesterday, and lets himself be left alone.


	6. offered with sure hands and sharp teeth

Hank makes himself as presentable as he can and signs to Sumo for help while he ducks into the kitchen to start coffee. Sumo's all too ready for the challenge and opens the bar handle on the front door, barking excitedly when he sees who their company is.

Cole Anderson, twenty-six and his wavy blond curls getting swept into his eyes by the wind. He still doesn't miss Sumo standing there, so full of joy he can't even stay still. It always puts such a big smile on Cole's face whenever they see each other, "Sumo! There's my boy! You're so good, greeting me at the door," he kneels to scratch at that special spot between the dog's shoulder blades and nuzzles in close. He projects his voice into the house accusingly, "Unlike _some_ people!"

"I'm hiding!" Hank calls back, pouring water in the coffeemaker and setting it to brew before he joins in the foyer. "Aw, kid. It's good to see you."

As Cole steps in, he's wrapped in one of those all-encompassing hugs where his father just seems to steep with love. Smushed into Hank's shoulder, he grins. "Good to see you too, you damn hermit. Moving out of the city like that."

"Thought you wanted fresh air for me." he defends, letting go to watch Cole's face as he takes in the place. There's a certain amount of awe, which, y'know— _good,_ because they've been working on it. Also some hesitancy, which isn't a surprise.

"This is fresh air?" Cole gives him a look that means he could do better, seeing still some of the lingering dust in the air. But it's playful enough where Hank can scoff at him. "Why don't you open up some windows?"

Hank makes a noncommittal noise while Cole dips into the living room to do just that. He stops him before he can. "The windows are old, kid. I'm waiting on some stuff to come in so I can."

"I would've helped, you know." Cole tells him, adjusting his bag on his shoulder. He's already scoping out a spot to set Hank up. "All the moving."

"You were working, and I had it under control." He waves the thought off, then tries to distract, "You want a tour? I can give you a little tour. There's coffee…"

Cole gives him a flat look, then moves to put his bag on the coffee table. "I don't think so."

"Come on…" he all but whines, "I'm old… give me some serotonin."

With a zip, Cole begins taking out his portable stand and box of gloves. "You're my worst patient. How about some spicy red blood cells instead?"

Hank huffs, and spares a nervous glance towards the direction of Connor's room before he begrudgingly settles into his recliner. "Fuckin' brattiest nurse I've ever had. I raised you better than this."

Cole slaps him with a glove before going towards the sound of dripping coffee, "I love you, too. Remember you can't outrun me."

He listens to Cole wash his hands and listens even harder for the creak of any floorboards. But there's nothing and he almost wishes there was, because that would mean Connor's up and about. Cole comes back and snaps on his gloves just to make Hank grimace, then takes vitals with care because while Hank is a bad patient, Cole is a very good nurse.

"Have you been stressed lately?"

Hank snorts. A fuckin' bit, kid.

"Here and there." he shrugs, like that isn't the question of the century.

"And how've you been feeling otherwise?" Cole asks, setting up the kit for the IV. Hank dreads this more than usual for astronomically different reasons.

"Cole, honey." He begs, shaking his head. "C'mon."

"We've done this how many times?" Cole smiles, but thankfully gives him some slack. "You see the Gears game? One hell of a matchup."

He actually missed it. He'd watched a movie from the 1930s with Connor, all black and white. Connor adored it. "I have it saved for later."

"You've been that busy with the house?" Cole sterilizes the back of his hand and carefully starts the IV. "Keeping all this ancient decor, or…?"

"Yeah, actually." He sighs at the pinch of pain, trying to relax. "We're gonna try to rescue some of the tarnished stuff."

Cole smiles. "If you ever need any help, you know you can call me."

"I'll call you for the Halloween party." He feels himself relax a little more at Cole's laugh. "What are you giving me this time, anyway?"

Cole checks into the secured bag, "A little bit of red, little bit of plasma... maybe some iron if you're feeling like partying."

Hank watches him take a few samples. "Maybe the red and iron first, yeah? That plasma shit makes me cold."

"That I can do." Cole promises, and hooks up the first bag for Hank's line. Hank shivers at the feeling when it hits. He can taste it for a scant second and lays his head back. Cole watches him for a bit, then squeezes his knee before going to get him a cup of coffee.

Now, he does hear a creak from upstairs, and immediately gets himself up. He makes it to the stairs and looks up to see the door to Connor's room cracked, eyes like black holes, all shrouded in darkness. Hank feels like that look sees into him, and it makes him shiver. But he reaches up anyway, to coax him out. He bets Connor's cold and knows he can make Cole start up a fire. They can make tea and just maybe he can get Connor some help.

But Connor's eyes widen and he quickly, quietly shuts the door.

Cole rounds the corner with two coffee cups and tuts at Hank, herding him back into the living room, "Pops, move it."

It feels like it takes forever for the drip to go dry, and it makes Hank lethargic when the second one starts. He feels like he's sunken into his chair and restless, wishing he could have just a fucking moment to go check on Connor.

Cole takes his vitals again and checks the IV, "Your heart rate is up. Do you want me to slow the drip?"

"No, I'm just thinking about things I have to do." Hank shoots that idea down fast.

They both look upwards when there's the creak of a door. Cole adjusts the blanket he's put on his father, smiling softly. "Damn house. It's a creaky thing, isn't it?"

"Ah, actually… I, uh," Hank tries to cover himself now too, to keep it as out of sight as he can if Connor comes down. "I got a roommate."

Cole blinks. "Wh… Really?"

"Yeah, yeah." he chatters, trying to strain his ears for the stairs, "It's a big place. We're makin' it what we can. He's a good match, y'know?"

The look on Cole's face turns from blank surprise to recognition, "A good match for you?"

Hank's chest stutters at the sound of that, to the point of making him dizzy. "I just mean… We sit around after a day of hard work putting this place together, it's easy to fuckin' sit with him. We-We share stories and he's got miles like I do. A good match, y'know?"

He desperately tries to make it sound like anything other than he moved out of town and got a secret lover without so much as telling his son. It's supposed to sound like two old souls who just found each other.

Ah. That doesn't help.

"Well," Cole says, sitting back on the edge of the coffee table with a downright delighted expression, "Just dudes being guys, then."

" _Cole Ambrose_ …" he scolds.

Cole raises his hands in surrender, sliding away to check his phone. "No need to bring out the double whammy of first and middle names…"

He grunts irritably when Cole gets up to take a call. He doesn't know how far Connor can hear and he doesn't want to give people the wrong idea about him. Connor's an old gentleman and language is still something Hank's learning, what's appropriate and what's not. He doesn't think insinuations that Connor's into anything less than proper with him is okay to even joke about. The honor of it all, reputation. Even if, y'know. Y'know.

Hank thinks about Connor after that bath, buried under blankets on his couch. Tired, battered, but alive and soft for it.

He thinks of Connor during that movie, crushing popcorn kernels between his sharp teeth and entranced by the spectacle of it all. He thinks of Connor in the pitch black of his bedroom when Hank checks on him, curled tight in his blankets and the wrinkles in his brow smoothed with momentary peace.

"Hank?" he hears, less than a goddamn whisper.

God, Connor looks like hell.

Any semblance of health he was clinging to has vacated the fucking area. He looks like a ghost. Too pale, veering on gray, his lips starting to go the faintest hint of purple. Hank doesn't even want to look him in the eye.

"Connor. Jesus…" He makes to get up but Connor flinches. He's trembling all over. He's also eyeing Hank's IV like he's fucking terrified. "Let me help."

Hank's not above begging him, not when he looks like that.

"I want to." he whispers, sounding heartbroken. He shrinks back behind the corner before Hank even hears Cole's footsteps over the hardwood floor.

"How's it going?" Cole slides closer and looks concerned when Hank stoppers the drip.

"I wanna stop for today, kid." he says, coaxing Cole to get the IV out before he does it himself. Cole must see it too, because he's pulling on gloves to catch Hank's hands. "I need to stop."

"What is it? Talk to me." Cole works efficiently while keeping a close eye on his father's face.

"It's just, I'm not good. I want to be done, I'm…"

"Pops, you're panicking."

Hank nods, forcing himself to take a few breaths. Cole lays the tube to the side and holds pressure on Hank's hand, looking at him with sympathy and love. "It just made you feel a little trapped, huh?"

Hank nods again, wishing he still didn't feel so trapped. He swallows down the edge to his voice and sighs, "I just gotta get up, y'know? Get some space."

Cole nods, squeezing his good knee in hopes to soothe. "I want you to rest after you stretch your legs, okay? Lots of fluids."

"I know. I know, hey," He shoos at the small mess of the coffee table workstation. "I'll clean this up, alright? You get outta here, make plans for the weekend."

Cole shakes his head gently, "It's no trouble, Pop. I got it."

"Cole." he says, and it must carry something because it gets him attention. "It'd give me something to do. Before I lay down."

He's eyeing the dull yellow bag of thawed plasma on the table.

"It's medical equipment." Cole reasons, such a goddamn good nurse. "Pops, there's still fluid in the bags."

Hank shakes his head, "I've got the right waste bags, still. I can take 'em when I go into town next, it'd get me out. It's not like I haven't done this before,"

Cole looks skeptical. But Hank reaches over and squeezes his elbow, giving him an encouraging smile. "I got it. Shit's already paid for privately, not like they could take anything back to store away. It's okay, really."

That reluctance doesn't leave Cole's face, but it does soften. Hank thinks he's more reluctant to leave him alone than about the disposable shit. He knows Hank knows the procedure, he's tied in close with all his medical treatment. Which is part of why Cole gets to be his private nurse. He had to be active in it after everything that happened. No, it's not so much a nurse being worried over a certified patient taking care of things, it's a son being worried about his dad.

"You've got Sumo, to steady you." Cole reminds him, as Hank rubs his back while gently maneuvering him towards the door. "And…" He hesitates, zipping up his bag with everything non-disposable he keeps with him. "And maybe your… roommate will keep an eye on you? If you need help, you can go to him, right?"

"Absolutely." Hank promises, and squeezes into the hug Cole gives him.

"Call me later, alright?"

"You got it, honey." he promises again. He means it, it's not to get Cole out the door any faster. He honestly wishes he could stay, but how would he explain? Especially with Connor in such a state. Maybe when they fix this…

He hastily gets the correct waste bag and cleans up the mess. The plasma is sitting there like gold, and after the tucks the waste bag away where Sumo could never get into it, he takes it and the rest of the iron transfusion into his hands. He doesn't know the effect they'll have, but… Hank's willing in other ways, too. Connor is shakily standing in the upstairs hallway when Hank goes to him. Standing is more like using the wall for complete support, looking worse than miserable. It honestly hurts Hank to see.

"Hey, hey..." He soothes when he comes closer, instinctively holding his arms out to him. Connor crumbles into the embrace, dragging his nose over Hank's neck. "I'm here. Listen to me. You hearin’ me, Connor?"

"I'm right here." Connor answers, a fucking chill all down Hank's front. "You smell so different."

"Yeah, I know. Shh…" He leans back just so, to see Connor's face. "I got you something. You wanna try something?"

He holds up the bags and he can see the viscous fluid coming off Connor's sharp teeth when he opens his mouth to speak, "This is for you."

"And now it's for you." he says.

"Hank." Connor shakes his head, and Hank has to keep him upright when he wavers. This is a nightmare waiting to happen, they're both not so sturdy at the moment. And it pisses Hank off that Connor sounds disapproving, like he couldn't possibly, like he doesn't want to take from him.

He presses their foreheads together when Connor can't seem to keep his head up. "Yeah. Right now. Come on, let's get you somewhere."

He takes Connor into his bedroom, thinking he'll be most comfortable there. The bed creaks when they sit, Connor's hands are trembling. He looks like he's conscious just from sheer will. Hank offers the plasma, folding it into Connor's hands, "I don't need it. Go on."

Connor's voice is all but gone, something so thick in his throat he has to fight for words. "You're going to stay?"

"I'm right here." he promises, whether that's what Connor was looking for or not. He looks so hesitant, and even more it looks like it pains him to hesitate. Hank takes him by the wrist and pushes the bag closer towards his face, and Connor hisses. It's a small thing, like surprise when you're not prepared, but it sounds feral and all too loud in the room. Connor shudders at his own reactions.

When he opens his mouth he's almost drooling over this little bag, not even a warm swath of skin, and he feels low. He shouldn't have waited, he should've just asked. But when he bites into the bag and it cascades over his tongue like water in the desert and honey in the afternoon sun, when he immediately feels a sob push from his lungs… Hank's hand slides over the back of his neck, tethering him right there, giving him a place to come home to when he's done floating.

Hank wasn't entirely _there_ for the last time Connor ate like this, on account of immediately blacking out. He kinda thought it was his own constitution that failed him there, but watching Connor's teeth punctured in the bag, there's some sort of exchange that happens right away. That same thick fluid comes from Connor's canines, tempering the plasma. It swirls before building into the plasma itself— and Connor makes a low, incredible humming noise.

Hank rubs the back of his neck, gently thumbing into the tightly-wound tendon. Connor gives a moan that rumbles in his chest and leans into the sweet source of warmth Hank provides. When Connor nears the end of the bag, he's there with the rest of the iron, offering it right to Connor's mouth as the plasma bag drops empty in his lap.

A sound like Hank's name bubbles from Connor's throat.

He nods, pushing the bag to the floor so he can drag a blanket close. He's cold from Connor and the effects of the IV, so he puts it over the both of them. "I'm here. Is it good? I'm right here."

Connor nods, tucking into his shoulder when he can't hold himself up anymore. Hank leans on him just as much. His body is going through shocks, it hurts so bad, everything so concentrated on an empty stomach. It's sitting heavy, it feels like his whole body is ringing. He doesn't realize he's shaking until Hank holds him, doesn't realize the buzzing in his ears is Hank cooing to him. And when the bag crumples empty in his hands, he lets it fall away and pants as he reaches for Hank.

"Talk to me." Hank urges, not liking the way he's still too distressed.

"Sorry." he whispers, voice thick. Hank's pulse is thundering wonderfully, he can feel it pumping, _so alive_.

"You're not better, are you?" Hank asks, trying to see his eyes.

"Fine." he tries, but doesn't have the heart in it. Hank jostles him enough to make him whine, just to put them face to face.

"Connor... Take from me."

The sentence lances through him like electricity.

"No, no… I'm fine." he manages to gasp, fingers shaking where they're curled in Hank's shirt. He wants to. His throat burns for it, his stomach fluttering with so many contrasting feelings. Hank is almost entirely holding him up now.

He cradles Connor's head between his own unsteady hands, foreheads together. The sharp burst of frustration thrusts Connor into startled awareness, "Connor, don't lie to me!"

They meet eyes— both of them scared. Connor, terrified it will make Hank afraid of him, the intimacy he'll pour into it and how he'll cling to Hank like the lifeline he very much is. Hank, frightened beyond all belief because he doesn't know what's happening, and the only thing he wants right now is Connor safe in his arms.

"I'm sorry." he whispers, squeezing his eyes shut. He forces a deep breath and sounds pretty fucking close to tears, "Don't lie to me. This is your life."

"This is yours." Connor's fingers find his pulse, as if he can't already hear it while his senses are on high alert.

"You know what I'm gonna say." Hank pleads.

"How is it after only this much time that I do know?" he murmurs, tender down to his bones. Hank's offering him relief from the pain, peace from the whispers of hunger, satisfaction more than he knows.

Closeness. Trust. Invitations that Connor doesn't get anymore. It rings in Connor's head, ' _He trusts you_ '. Hank doesn't say anything. Just simply leads Connor into the crook of his neck and buries his fingers in the hair at his nape.

And he holds Hank steady, feels the thrum of his veins with his tongue and hears Hank try to breathe slowly. Gently bracing himself, waiting for him.

The thing is, he feels compelled.

It's a need, when he leans up and looks into Hank's eyes, then gently slots their mouths together. It's not a real kiss, he can't take his time, but it would feel wrong not to do this. Hank relaxes into it, such a magical thing the way his body gives to Connor's touch, and the moment he pulls away he doesn't waste any time. He lays his hand against the side of Hank's skull and bites down right into that spot at his neck.

And besides Hank's breath, he doesn't make a sound. _Perfect_.

Hank thought it would hurt. Like before. But there's none of it. Sure, he feels the pressure of it, he knows exactly where Connor's teeth are - he thinks he'd be a moron not to. No, everything's very present. The world doesn't film grain around the edges. There's an ache, something sharp and cold, and he hears Connor whimper against his skin.

Then comes the feeling.

It hits him like a fucking bus.

This overwhelming wave of euphoria. It rolls through his system faster than morphine and makes way for the pleasure. His skin raises goosebumps and his stomach flutters with heat, satisfaction pings through his head and every muscle in his body. A groan stumbles out of his mouth before he can stop it, way fucking louder than he'd like and sounding like he's very much, _thoroughly,_ getting his way. Connor just strokes at the side of his face and neck like he's soothing a spooked horse or an old lover.

Hank goes lax in Connor's hands.

Connor is making low, gentle hums of noise. Encouraging and making Hank _buzz_ like good hands all over him, like a blanket of hot static. He's not even embarrassed, he's just there. He registers only after the fact that he's been laid down, on account of every muscle being relaxed. He thinks he can tell intellectually that he's cold, so he just reaches blindly for Connor's body. Thinking he can make him warm. He doesn't even feel when Connor detaches from him, only sees him looking just as dazed. Just as satisfied. Hank tries to pull him close. Connor has already put a blanket between them.

"Good?" Hank's voice cracks when he speaks, rough and beautiful.

His head is swimming but he nods, licking away the taste of Hank from his lips and leaning over him when beckoned. He pushes Hank's hair back and it fans out over the pillow he's placed down.

"Mhmm. It’s okay." he murmurs just as he dips to kiss Hank again, gently with his teeth still out. Hank shudders under him. He tilts his head and pets Hank's cheek, chaste kisses again and again and again. Lingering, letting them feel like something. Hank opens his mouth under his and the searching sound that follows is like cool silk down Connor's back. He pulls back and shushes him softly, not ready for that. Hank's fingers weakly squeeze his lower back. It makes him smile, and gently promise, "It's okay. You can rest, Hank. It was good… I'm good."

Hank shivers from that too, and for only a fraction of a second Connor thinks about how lovely that is to see.

"Good boy." Hank sighs, with his eyes already shut. The stress on his body from the events of the day, with the relaxation and low, thumping pleasure that moves like the tide when he breathes in and out. Hank feels like he could rest his eyes for a bit with Connor's blessing, so as easy as ever, he gives in.


	7. flower bud

Things feel… better, when he comes to. There's still a lingering flow of pleasure, dull and so fucking good. He feels so fucking good. When he stretches and his spine cracks in that really satisfying way, he groans outright and there's a soft chuckle above him. Fingers thread through the strands of his hair, fond and familiar, and Hank lazily blinks upwards to see Connor with the most satisfied smile. And he looks—

He looks fucking good.

Around his eyes, a significant amount of the bruising is gone. Any unhealthy brownish veins have faded. Hank feels the breath leave him, Connor's even a little pink in the cheeks. He can't fucking believe it, he almost thinks it's a dream. And when Connor touches his cheek, he's not as cold anymore.

"You know, I like that you call me 'bud'." Connor says, voice like goddamn velvet. Hank doesn't care how out of the blue what he says is, Connor's obviously been thinking about it. He raises a brow and Connor trails his thumb over it, "It's a very sweet endearment. A flower bud for someone who doesn't see the sun… but you think I can still bloom, hm?"

"Holy shit, Connor." he whispers, reaching up to touch that little dip in Connor's chin with amazement at the pure presence of him. "I… Yeah."

That's what it means, now. Because Hank is so soft to believe it, too.

Connor shifts a little bit, and Hank doesn't want him to, he wants him to stay right here. But a hand tips his head up and a glass of water is pressed to his lips, so he drinks half immediately. His body begs for it. He clears his throat, "How long…?"

"A few hours." Connor murmurs, tipping the glass so he'll have a little more. Then he leans down to place a kiss on Hank's mouth, just a slow press. He doesn't let Hank reach for more, just smiles and slides over to get another drink.

"Wow, that's…" Hank's a little awed at getting kissed again. He wasn't sure if that would get to keep happening.

"Yes?" Connor whispers, offering Hank's mouth a straw to have him sip orange juice. Hank just nods dumbly. It's gentle and relaxed when Connor smiles. He doesn't think he's ever seen Connor so free of tension, so unwound. Hank squirms a little bit and is surprised to see that he can still move his legs. It's so wildly different than last time, and while it puts him a little out of his depth, he's glad for it.

"How the hell did you do… that?" he asks. Connor raises a brow and he begrudgingly adds, "Make me feel like that."

"Ah, well…" Connor stares somewhere around his chest, looking both proud of himself and bashful as hell. "I'm glad it worked, obviously I'd been out of practice."

Hank opens his mouth to urge for more, and Connor stuffs the straw in his mouth again. But he continues regardless, "It's a natural ability that came with the change, all out of will. I… give in return for being allotted the kindness of taking. I learned I could do different things. I could take pain, I could paralyze my donor,"

They share a look. Hank knows that one. Connor looks a little guilty. "A survival response, I assure you… to make sure in a deprived state, I could sustain myself… Uncivilized, I like willing parties." he shrugs, fingers smoothing wrinkles in Hank's shirt. "And I learned, albeit accidentally, that I could give intense pleasure."

"Yeah, that's the one." Hank croaks.

"I hoped you would enjoy it." he says quietly, "I'd only done it once before, so I wasn't sure if it was _actually_ that immense, but—"

"It was." Hank blurts.

"Apologies." He bites down on a smile.

"And it was an accident?" Hank needs a tiny bit of clarification, honestly. How do you _accidentally_ find out how to pump someone with feeling that intense?

"Not with you." he promises quickly, like he's assuring Hank he meant to make him feel good. "But the first time. I was, well, enraptured already…"

Hank flushes. He doesn't know why he asks this shit, too damn curious for his own good. Connor goes shy, "…The viscount was more than just charming, Hank."

"Ah, I knew it!" Hank drops his head back onto the pillow, feeling a dull ache in his neck.

Connor's voice prickles with nervousness, "I only hope it wasn't an unpleasant experience for you."

"I didn't say I didn't like it." he says more eagerly than he meant to. Because of course he is. Eager. What a sucker.

Connor's eyes light up but he tries not to give Hank his delight. Any sense of anything proper has gone entirely out the window, but he still tries to guard himself. Just in case.

But then Hank asks, "Does… everyone get kissed beforehand, or…?"

And it blooms a smile he couldn't hope to keep at bay. "No… and stop crooning for flattery."

Hank grins and maybe he doesn't know exactly what's between them now, but he thinks it's something he likes. Connor trails his fingertips along his neck and Hank can feel the small unevenness of his path over the dull ache. He wants to ask. He wants to ask how rough he's looking, if it's as bad as the one on his shoulder that's still healing up.

But he watches Connor's eyes become unfocused, the soft pull of tension return. The wrinkles on his forehead deepen and he shares with Hank quietly, "I would frequently take Richard's pain."

Hank gently seeks out Connor's arm to comfort. "Yeah?"

He nods distantly, "He kept me alive. He offered, relentlessly. It became a routine. He worried. I told him I'd find solutions, animals and such. He refused to let his elder brother scrounge in the woods, even if… it was actually very nice the time I did."

Hank's thankful to see the soft pull of a smile at that. "Richard became your primary source?"

"I was spoiled, and I knew it." he adds with a dose of amusement. But he sounds so sentimental, "He saved me from the woods, saved me from the chill as well as he could, and _continued_ to save me every single day. He said we were in it together, cared for me like someone who came home from war missing something. He all but abandoned his projects for me… his sculptures suffered…"

Hank squeezes his arm. He wants Connor to talk about it, but not plague himself with sadness and loss. He wonders how to get happy memories out of Connor. It's absolutely a tactic, but he leans forward to kiss him. Just a quick one. It smooths the pinch in Connor's brow.

"Tell me about your brother's sculptures, bud." He makes himself comfortable in Connor's bed, the old thing warm for the first time in many handfuls of years.

Connor softens in a good way. He slumps against Hank's chest and sighs, "Oh, Hank. He could capture enviable likenesses…"

Things go well. The two of them tidy up the house more and more every day. Connor tends to the flowers at the edge of the woods at night. They skirt around their attraction until Connor beckons Hank in for another of those chaste, tender kisses. Hank finally puts up a new mirror in his favorite bathroom, and not two hours later he hears the loud clatter of all his soap bottles scattering across the floor.

When he and Sumo rush up the stairs, they find Connor staring with disbelief at his own reflection.

"What happened? Con, you alright?" he rests a hand on his back, looking him over to make sure he's not hurt. Connor meets his eyes through the mirror, a wild mix of emotions.

"Do you see me, too?" he asks, almost afraid.

"Of course I do." Hank squeezes the back of his neck soothingly, not understanding in the slightest. Connor looks on in shock.

"I haven't seen myself in so many years…" he whispers, running his fingers over his jaw, categorizing the differences from what he remembers. He doesn't know how to feel about them all. Hank is about to tell him how good he looks, butter him up something nice, when it suddenly hits him.

He remembers the fucking research he did. The 'research'. The fucking legends.

"That one was _true_?!" he blurts, finally disrupting Connor from his own reflection. "That myth was actually true?"

Connor seems amused by the outburst, gently giving Sumo a reassuring pat while he stares, "I'm flattered you knew… I can't believe I'm gifted with this again. I never dared to hope."

He looks struck for a moment and then shoulders past Hank, running into his bedroom. Hank follows with concern. Connor pulls the old sheet off his vanity, and his shoulders slump as he stares into the grimy mirror. "Oh…"

Hank inches his way closer, but stops in his tracks the moment he catches Connor's… lack of reflection. "Oh, wow."

"I don't understand." Connor plops onto the bench with disappointment, and it takes Hank a long second of staring at the ghostly almost-shape of Connor in the antique mirror.

"Oh, Connor." he tentatively settles his hands on Connor's shoulders, hoping he's able to provide some kind of comfort. He sees Connor's fingers curl in the sheet. He's had to hide for a long time and sometimes the instinct still bubbles to the surface, Hank understands. "That's what you saw all the time?"

Connor won't look at himself now. "Yes. I don't understand why it's… choosing."

Hank is sure he read _something_ about it. He knows vampires and mirrors, that's a big now not-myth, but not the details. So, he does the only obvious thing and takes out his phone. "Well, we have the internet, bud. Let's find out."

Connor's head whips up to see. With a few choice words typed, Hank announces to the room, "Besides all the _bullshit_ ," Connor is still a fucking person, he still has a fucking soul. Assholes. "People think it's because old mirrors were made with _silver_ as a base—"

So Connor's real issue is silver, then. Hank thinks it's less because he's damned and more a severe allergic reaction, especially when Connor can snap back with a top up meal.

"Silver." Connor hisses, very much an old character when he slams his fist on the vanity in blasphemy. Hank lays his hand over Connor's and leans to kiss his hair, "Careful… They don't make 'em like that anymore, which means you can see yourself in any other mirror now. You can see again."

Connor takes Hank’s face between his hands, bringing their foreheads together affectionately. His smile is brimming with delight, with relief, as he stands from the bench, "Hank, my heart is full…"

Hank's, too. Just from the look of him. But he chuckles and pats Connor's lower back, guiding him back towards the bathroom, "Go on, go give in to vanity."

Connor eagerly goes, and gives pause to clean the fallen bottles with a regretful tut. But he finds his reflection again, starting to fuss with his hair, "Oh, Hank. I didn't know I was such a mess."

Hank grabs one of his combs from the jar on the counter, leaning to kiss Connor's temple as he passes it over. "You never look a mess, Connor."

Connor gives him a blinding smile. Shit like that could make Hank melt if he let it. "I didn't know you felt so strongly about me, Hank."

"Is that a strong declaration, bud?" he grins, heading towards the stairs to let Connor get acquainted with himself again. He has to get back to the oven. "I'm making dinner, if you'd like to join me for a private meal…"

"Mr. Anderson!" Connor yells after him, but it sounds so filled to the brim with joy and just a touch of indulged scandal. It's been a benefit to learn the way Connor speaks.

When Connor does join he's wearing Hank's turtleneck, tucked into those old high waisted trousers. Oh, Hank hopes the clothes they ordered online come in soon, because he can't handle how good _that_ looks.


	8. to my dear brother,

Little less than a week later, during a long afternoon, Hank asks for permission before he goes into Connor's room. Connor teases about not letting him in, and he wins him over by promising to dust. What he does is take up his toolbox and packages he wouldn't let Connor see, and shoves open the thick curtains on Connor's window. It'll be a bit of work affixing some of this shit with the old window, but he's confident.

The film he unrolls on the floor and cuts a sheet out of looks pretty good. The only thing he thinks, as he cleans the old glass and installs the film, is that he hopes it'll do what it's meant to and keep Connor safe from the sun. So he doesn't always have to be in the dark.

He takes the extra step to - however crudely - hang half out the window and cement down tracks to install a screen, too. He'll do it to all the windows they use if it works.

When he hides it all behind the curtain again, he feels proud. He dusts, like he promised, and shoves everything aside before he goes to find Connor. He thinks he heard him padding around earlier, but checking the usual haunts… he can't find him.

"Sumo." he calls, and the dog comes trotting in a moment later. "Where's Connor, baby boy? You know where he went to?"

Sumo knows Connor's name by now, knows when Hank's looking for him. They set off together, searching through the large dining room, the back sitting room, Hank even checks the observatory with the greenhouse ceiling in case Connor's sitting under a blanket in there.

He's not. There's a prickle of unease that settles under Hank's skin.

"Connor?" he calls and it echoes back to him. With a sign, Sumo puts his nose down and starts sniffing. They do another round of the house, and Sumo huffs and picks up speed down that one familiar hallway.

' _Christ_ ', Hank thinks, as he clicks on the old bulb leading to the basement, ' _What is he doing back down here?_ '

It's not that the basement is off limits. They've just been staying away from it for the most part. Y'know, like the plague. Or more easily, _the secret hell coffin_. The only time it's ventured into is to grab a bottle of wine and find any boxes of antiques from Connor's life. But they always went together.

Now that he's back down, it sets a little twist in his stomach. It feels like something is wrong, just instinctively.

The candelabra is tipped sideways. The hidden wine rack door is open at the end of the cellar. "Fuck." Hank shivers like the first time he entered this place. "Connor?"

In the parlor, Connor is sitting in one of the plush chairs. He's slumped down, his chin tucked to his chest as he peers at the book cradled in his hands. He's been crying.

"Connor." he hovers at the door wondering if this is one of those times he gives Connor space, while hoping desperately that it isn't.

" **To my dear brother** ," Connor reads, voice almost flat if not for the quiver around the words, " **I'm writing this with love for you and anger for the rest of the world, in the parlor where they put you to rest by force. I am here often now. They can threaten all they like but they still must buy my silence. They can't bring me harm without causing my knowledge to bleed across the ladder of society as well**."

Fucking hell.

Connor keeps going, " **I miss you like a limb lost. As part of me is gone while you're lost from the world. I will never forgive them for it. Father won't say your name, and when mother asks him why, I say because he does not deserve to have it in his mouth.** "

"Connor, jesus…" Hank's heart twists the more he listens.

Richard left diaries.

" **Your funeral is soon.** " Connor continues, lip curling with anger, showing the hint of teeth. " **It seems, I will have to misbehave… The only words I'll have for you, I vow to one day say in person. And more, I will mean them. Richard.** "

Connor lets the book fall flat against his lap, heaving a sigh. He seems like he's going to shutter himself away, leave himself to a stone veneer that Hank can't touch. But then he looks up at Hank, and his eyes brim with tears, "He spoke to me in letters never sent. He left these for me."

Thank fucking god, Connor reaches out for him. Hank doesn't waste a second crossing the room to take hold of him.

"He left these for me, Hank." he sobs while Hank pulls him into his arms, cocooning him in warmth.

"God, Connor. I can't imagine." Hank whispers, swallowing hard to keep the sorrow Connor feels out of his throat. "He loved you so much."

"Uh-huh." Connor hiccups, clinging to Hank as he's tucked into his shoulder, "He promised we'd speak again…"

Hank doesn't know what to say. The anguish is palpable. Sumo comes over to whine and press his face into Connor's side, trying to soothe him.

"They had a funeral." Connor says, almost in wild disbelief, "They killed me and mourned at a hole in the ground, as if they felt any remorse."

"Bastards." Hank spits, raking his fingers up and down Connor's back the way he likes best. A broken laugh startles from Connor's chest.

" _Fucking_ bastards." he adds, bringing Hank and Sumo into his arms for the comfort and closeness he's grateful to be given.

"Oh, ho! That's right, bud." Hank grins, cupping Connor's cheek in his hand to wipe away those heavy tears. They breathe together, letting Connor calm. "Hey... I got you something, upstairs."

Connor gives a watery smile, "You do?"

Hank gathers Connor and the diary, leading him back up to the home they've made together. Sumo trails close behind, on Connor's other side.

"Ah, you dusted." Connor praises, when Hank brings him back to his room.

"Yes, but..." he rubs Connor's back through his new cotton shirt, moving them towards the lone window. "I'm hoping this works. Check your curtains?"

Connor looks at him curiously, which is valid. He takes out his old pocket watch to check the time, thinking perhaps he's missed more than he thought. He's happy to see that's not the case, but— "Hank, it's two in the afternoon."

"I know. Indulge me?" he tips his head a bit to the side, "I have a little snack for you if anything goes sideways."

Connor wrinkles his nose playfully, but there's lingering nerves held in his eyes. But he trusts Hank. So he takes the edge of the curtain and pulls it aside, doing well to stay out of the way. The black film placed over the glass lets in dull, filtered sunlight, and Connor curiously shuffles closer.

"Don't lie." Hank says, before Connor can say anything, "You can hate it. Or let me know it doesn't work."

"I won't lie to you." he promises, "I just don't know what it is. You covered my window."

"It's a tinted film. It's supposed to filter the sunlight. So I thought, maybe—"

Connor sticks his hand in the sun. Hank holds his breath.

It's a fucking scary moment.

But Connor's hand doesn't start blistering in the patch of light, and Connor huffs a soft laugh. "Hank…"

"Are you okay?" He reaches to take Connor's hand, rubbing over the back that's thankfully healed so many times before.

"You have even conquered the sun for me." Connor says, awe woven in his words. He steps into the light and closes his eyes, smile wobbling with emotion. "It doesn't hurt. I feel it, but it doesn't hurt… It feels warm."

Hank feels himself get a little choked up. Conquered the sun? Connor injects romanticism into every damn compliment he gives.

"And look at this." he adds excitedly, opening up the window to show the matching UV screen.

Connor gasps now, "That hasn't been opened in the day for such a long time!"

He watches Connor kneel at the windowsill, feeling the breeze coming through. He gets to his knees with him, watching closely at his skin for any reaction. When he reaches for his hand again, Connor laces their fingers. "I don't know what to say. This is…"

"What you deserve." Hank tells him, captured by the look of bliss on Connor's face. Right on the line of unbridled excitement and tears, mellowed in incredible relief. Connor never expects these things, it's like seeing waves. The big push forward of emotion and wild disbelief for the gentle wash of quiet calm after, where he sits with another thing he didn't think he'd have again.

Connor looks at him, eyes shining with tears he hasn't let go. His fingers find Hank's beard and when he leans in, he doesn't let Hank go so easily. The kiss he bestows lingers, Hank even gets to press into it, to open his mouth and hold back a delighted laugh at Connor's cold tongue. When they part, Hank feels a little giddy. At sixty years old, he feels giddy over a kiss with the barest hint of tongue. He traces the curve of freckles along the side of Connor's face and gives him a soft smile.

"I think I'll sit by my window and read more from the diary, for a while." Connor whispers, and Hank likes seeing him lean into the breeze.

"Sounds good to me." It's sweet that Connor helps him stand, knowing his weak knee well by now. Sumo jumps up onto Connor's bed and he sighs, starting to shoo, "Sumo, come on down. He doesn't like that."

"It's fine." Connor soothes, stopping Hank's hands. "Leave him be."

"You sure? I thought 'beasts weren't allowed in proper places'."

"Sumo is much more than a common beast, Hank." he says, rubbing Sumo's ears. "So smart, much more learned than any of my father's associates'. They were bred for hunting and fright."

"And what's Sumo made for?" He's still worried about Sumo drooling on Connor's blanket.

"He's made for love."

Hank smiles. "Well, I'd sure say so."

"They say dogs are like their owners." Connor states. He turns away from Hank to move his chair close to the window, and sits with Richard's diary.

Hank shifts bashfully from foot to foot, not knowing how to respond. It takes him a moment to collect himself again. Sumo's giving him knowing eyes. But he lets out a weak huff and just does the best he can, "I'll put your blankets in the dryer. Get 'em all warm for you."

"Thank you, Hank." Connor has his eyes closed against the sun like a sophisticated, satisfied cat.

And Hank feels things, about that. About him.

He wonders if Connor can feel it thumping in his pulse.

They eat together, as they do most nights, after Connor has pulled himself away from Richard's old echoes. He looks… not quite sad, but something very close. Maybe it's regret. At leaving his baby brother alone in the world. Hank hopes it isn't, because it's not Connor's fault.

Later, when they're bundled on the couch with Hank tucked under Connor's arm, Hank offers to let him close, to drink again. And Connor seems surprised. He kisses Hank, brings him into the cocoon of blankets when he lays him down. He doesn't take much, just something to satisfy, but he gives Hank everything anyway. They lay there together gently panting in the warm air, while Connor indulges himself this time, pressing kisses to the mark he's made, watching his saliva soothe and jumpstart the healing process.

Hank makes such wonderful noises, he thinks. It's languid and the feeling of having someone so close is like a balm for them both. Hank whispers to ask for permission before he touches Connor's back under his clothes, and Connor, happily, guides his hand. The way Hank's fingers dip along his spine is riveting. Hank, somewhere in a part of his unaffected brain, notices that Connor's starting to put on much needed weight. He's looking, and acting, more alive everyday.


	9. changes, plans, and level heads

Cole comes by the next morning, to check in, takes a few annual blood samples on the porch when he stops his father from installing window screens for two seconds. Hank says they're to keep the light from bleaching the antique flooring. They talk a while, and Cole joins in on helping him with the home improvement.

He asks if he'll ever meet Hank's mysterious roommate.

"Connor." Hank says, giving his son a name to the role, at least.

"Connor." Cole echoes with a pleased smile, "Okay. When am I gonna meet the mysterious Connor? How old is he?"

"He's..."

Yikes. Over a hundred?

"In his thirties. He's got a different sleep schedule. I'd uh, have to talk to him."

Cole just hums in acknowledgement.

After Cole leaves, Hank ambles back inside to find Connor sleepily sprawled on the couch. An old vampire movie is playing on the TV, but it's no longer receiving rapt attention. He doesn't even open his eyes when Hank nears. "Hank, is it time for the inside work?" he mumbles, poking his arm out of his blankets to rub at his face.

"Not if you're still tired." Hank promises, leaning over the back of the couch to see him. Connor's eyes slip open, and Hank reaches for him with a startled gasp, "Connor."

Connor's eyes are looking at him so sweetly, sleepy and unburdened and gentle.

And his sclera is no longer an otherworldly black. The deep browns of his irises stand out even more beautifully now, and he looks... entirely human.

"Hank?" Connor's brow knits in clear confusion, punctuated by a soft eep of noise when Hank pushes up his top lip to see his teeth. His blunt teeth.

Hank loses his breath. "Your teeth are... and your eyes. You look— Well, you look like your painting."

Connor smiles indulgently, "That was painted when I was twenty-six. And I heard you say I looked in my thirties... Hank, how flattering you are."

"Connor, you don't age."

"And yet I am very old!"

"And you're not getting it." Hank beckons him up, taking both of his hands to pull him from the couch like the height of a period romance. It's not lost on Hank, the way they pause and linger a scant inch from touching all down the front.

He takes Connor into the bathroom, feeling bad for making him shiver because he's taken him from the warm blankets. But he parks him in front of the mirror and holds him gently by the jaw, "Look."

"Oh." Connor whispers, his hand layered over Hank's, in between him and the lip of the sink. Somehow he's less blown away than Hank and Hank has an issue with that.

"Oh?" he leans in a little more, "Connor, you're different!"

A small sound of amusement puffs from Connor's chest and he reaches back to bring Hank's free arm around his waist. Since Hank's chest is brushing his shoulder blades already. It makes Hank stall, go quiet and a little stiff so he doesn't touch anywhere Connor doesn't want.

"Yes," he says, guiding Hank's hand down to rest against his collar while he gazes at them - and more so himself - in the mirror, "It took a good amount of energy to do, but I finally was strong enough."

"Oh." Hank says now.

"Mm." he nods. "You took me from my blanket."

Hank flushes a little red with embarrassment. It looks nice. "Sorry." he murmurs, hands slipping away to take off his cardigan. He helps Connor into it. "I didn't know _you_ controlled it."

"I do." Connor says, and opens his mouth to show off his teeth. The canines sharpen before Hank's eyes and he's now accustomed to it in the worst way because it sends a little tingle through him to see it.

And worse, Connor looks at him like he knows.

Fuck.

Thankfully, Connor takes pity on him and reminds him of the film they have to put up, and asks if Hank will teach him how so he can help. The joke's on Hank, he has to stand behind Connor to guide his hands while they smooth the film into place, too. It takes them longer together but Connor looks so proud that he's done something with his own two hands.

Connor changes clothes for dinner because he wants to look nice for when they eat soup together on the couch. Hank can peer over and see Connor without a high neckline for the first time, and he looks _good_. It's one of those simple shirts with the billowing sleeves and laces across the deep V in the front. Because Connor has to look like some vampire prince from the bedroom scene of every romance novel. But it means Connor feels comfortable with him, to be so dressed down. Is that scandalous in its own way? Connor's shithead father might say so. But Hank thinks the dead bastard had some choice opinions on other things that pertain to Connor's "decency" and "rightness" as well, if Connor's mentions of the viscount and his "misbehavior" mean anything. Fucker.

But what Hank can also see thanks to the change in wardrobe, is a thick, gnarled scar on the side of Connor's neck. Hank thinks he knows what that is from. He has the wild urge to reach out and touch him, to touch _it_ , and wipe away the trauma of it that still lingers under Connor's skin. He knows Connor still hesitates when he bites down on Hank, he knows he worries and coos and makes sure he hasn't done Hank any harm. He can't fix that. He can't take away the fear, only soothe it if it comes up. Only pull Connor closer.

He can't say anything about it. He can't fix it.

So instead he just says, "You look nice, bud."

And Connor gently wipes the corner of his mouth free of hot soup and gives one of those smiles, "Hank..."

"What?" he shrugs, smiling into his bowl.

"Do you mean it?" Connor asks. As if Hank could lie to him when his voice is that searching and tender.

"How could I not?" He lays his hand between them on the cushion.

Connor's hand inches to his.

Hank waits a few days until he trusts the forecast to spring on Connor. Late at night, he dips into Connor's room, seeing him assessing pieces of his parents' clothing to make sure they're intact.

"Can I come in?" he asks, already hanging halfway through the cracked door.

"Hank." Connor brightens and beckons him in, smoothing the dress held against him before draping it gently over a chair, "Shouldn't you be getting to bed?"

Hank shrugs, "Yes, but I wanted to run something by you. But first I need you to trust me."

"I do trust you." Connor says, scooping up a pair of trousers to see if they need mending.

"And say that you like me." Hank adds.

"I do like you, Hank." Connor replies while sounding just the tiniest bit suspicious. Hank's captured his attention, now.

"And just say yes to the next few things I say. Like how I want you to have a nice, long drink tonight and then wake up a little early with me tomorrow."

Connor stops now, hand not on his hip but on his natural waist where the old trousers rest. "Mr. Anderson…"

"Connor, just—"

"And what's gotten into you? Except longing me to be."

Hank flushes hot, " _Connor_."

He hums, squinting at Hank like he wants to know more. But it also seems he's having a good time because he quirks a smile, "Yes, Hank... and I assume there's more?"

"And," he rolls his shoulders to shake off the insinuation he put there himself. "I'd like if you'd put on something nice, and... Accompany me out tomorrow."

Connor looks at him like he's lost. "Waking up early and going outside don't mix well with my disposition, Hank."

"Yes, but... I just have this _feeling_." Hank tries to explain, "It's supposed to rain, which means cloud cover, and I got you some new clothes..."

"You got me new clothes?" he interrupts, "More?"

Hank scuffs at an imperfection on the bedpost, "Yeah?"

It's incredibly sweet.

He's not so sure about Hank's plan, no matter how passionate he seems, or even starting to think about being able to join the outside world in the light of day after so long… But it only seems Hank wants to try giving him something. And if he's not a fool for that already…

"Hank?" he gains attention, and he smiles, "I'd be delighted."

The whole line of Hank's body slumps in relief, the precious gap between his two front teeth on glorious display. It makes him long to reach out, bury his fingers in Hank's impressive beard and see his smile up close. Must he yearn so much?

Yes. Because he blurts out the words, "Would you like me to have you now?"

Like he's said to old lovers.

Whispered into their ears and offered with gentle hands.

And the tips of Hank's ears flush just like theirs did. But Hank doesn't go quiet and bend to him— instead he barks out a laugh, full of delight, and waves his hand as he steers backwards towards the door, "Hoo, alright. Let me get my drinks, then you can slurp to your heart's delight."

"Please don't say it like that." He rests his head in his hand.

"It's so fresh, bud!" Hank calls back.

Hank brings back his tray of electrolytes, and the bottle of wine they've been dwindling down over the week for Connor. Connor has cleared table space for him and as soon as the tray is placed, he's gathering Hank close for a kiss that pours honey into his veins. Hank does bend to him this time, big hands resting on his wrists while his knees shake.

"Do you always have to lay me down?" Hank whispers into the corner of his mouth, already feeling the light numbness on his lips from whatever's coming off Connor's fangs.

"I thought it would be the most comfortable for you." he whispers back, fingers threading through Hank's hair to gather it away from his neck. But Hank surprises him again and brings himself upright, against the headboard.

"Let me sit up with you." And it's said so intimately that he wonders if it's crossing a line. If for however romantic they are, how much they dance with each other like this, if requesting something different from the normal routine of Connor sustaining himself is too far.

Connor watches his eyes, how deep they are, and something in him shifts. Some gentle thing where his face goes soft, and his hands firm, and he breathes against Hank's lips, "I will let you."

And he kisses Hank tongue forward, fevered like he hasn't before, while he shifts slowly to sit between Hank's legs. Hank arches into it, reaching far enough to take the edge of Connor's blanket and pull it close around them, so there's no fear of the cold.

Connor appreciates it, but he doesn't think he could catch even the mention of a chill when Hank's body is so warm to the touch. It's incredible to draw his hands over Hank's shoulders and feel the life inside him, enjoy the way he tilts towards hands so cold to him. He can guide Hank's hand to his waist and feel him only pull, coveting him closer still. When Hank goes for his throat the sound that escapes him is far less strong than he'd like, and the sway of his body like a moth to a flame. The rustle of Hank's beard is beautiful against sensitive skin left so long without touch.

Hank hums against the slope of Connor's jaw, smoothing his lips and rasping his mustache against him, "Go on and take it. I'm right here."

Connor gathers his hair in one hand and holds, lovingly tips Hank's chin up with the other. "Are you comfortable?"

He just bares his throat more, licking over his lips to draw Connor's eyes. He's given the ghost of another kiss before Connor's dipping below, trailing the tip of his nose over Hank's skin before his mouth joins. When he bites down, it's just like before where there's nothing and then everything— shaking his body, lighting up every vertebrae, singing through his head and spreading outward. Lower.

The same sounds fall from his lips and this time Connor echoes them back, pleasure rebounding between them. He grabs the back of Connor's neck to keep him held firm, fingers stuttering on his waist as the waves come and go. And the rush tingling in Hank's nerves heightens, Connor crowds in closer, moans muffled against Hank's skin. It's definitely different, being upright, being so present with Connor. It's euphoric. He can feel himself shaking, the way his thighs are closing on Connor's hips out of habit.

He can feel Connor swallow against him and then there are hands at his jeans, fighting with the button and zipper. God, he can't imagine what it'd be like, but he tries pretty hard. He snatches his hand from Connor's waist to stop him, breath punching out of him with a groan, "Connor…"

There's the rumble of a whine and fingers curling in his waistband. "No." he manages, squeezing the hands in his, "I want a clear head, the first time we do this…"

He can feel Connor's heavy breathing under his jaw, the stuttering inhale. Connor's hands skitter up his belly, then wrap tight around him. Hank rests heavily, hand still finding Connor's bare back under his shirt. Connor curls into him and the feeling changes, just a little, shifting and moving. And Hank has seldom felt such comfort in his life. Cocooned in security and warmth so lovely. Pulled under the depths of background pleasure that just makes him feel loved. Fuck, he feels such admiration, adoration. It probably makes him hold onto Connor too tight.

But the other old man adrift in pleasure too doesn't seem to be complaining, tethered to Hank like he is.

They spend the night together. Hank vaguely remembers Connor pressing his drink to his lips, kissing his temple and telling him he's good. Telling him thank you. He remembers losing his pants sometime after, hushed with, "I'm a gentleman, Hank. This isn't an advance."

And being tucked into a blanket so firmly that he can't move. He remembers seeing Connor's dream-like silhouette slip into a nightgown. It's bliss.

He sleeps heavily, so well, it's a dreamless sleep but he doesn't mind. And all night there's a body against his own. It's comfort of contact in the simplest form.


	10. conqueror of the sun

The rain beats heavy against the old house, rattles against the glass of the windowpane. To the sound, Hank wakes slowly. Even if his hip aches from being in the same spot all night, in Connor’s decades old bed, he would say it’s pretty worth it. But of course he would, he’s a sentimental old man.

Rubbing his eyes to root out the sleep, he’s able to gaze across the mattress and see Connor. God, he looks so healthy. So unburdened while asleep. He’s tucked them in with separate blankets, how courtious, and Hank has to wiggle to get his arms out.

When he lays his warm palm over Connor’s cheek, there’s a moment where it startles him. He knows Connor’s even more starved of kind touch than he is. But even without opening his eyes, Connor must know it’s him, because his body melts back against the mattress. A sleepy smile.

“Con…” he whispers, a damn lovesick idiot. Connor’s nose wrinkles. “Hey, handsome. Come on.”

Connor’s eyes open to slits, the rasp of his voice even rougher in the morning, “Handsome, hm?”

Hank snorts. “Yeah. You remember why we’re waking up?”

“I don’t forget.” Connor brings himself up on an elbow just to scoot closer and lazily plant his head on Hank’s chest. “But it is far too early.”

Hank struggles a moment to weaken the blanket’s hold over him and clasp his hand over the back of Connor’s neck, “Bud…”

Connor grunts.

“Connor.” he chuckles and presses his face into the sleep-disturbed tufts of Connor’s hair. “Mm, don’t go back to sleep… Bud, flower bud, _Connor_ …”

Connor’s head tilts up towards, ear to Hank’s lips. “Again.”

“Sweetheart.” Hank murmurs.

He presses himself further against Hank’s chest for an indulgent moment. “Oh, I’m very awake now.”

Hank laughs into the kiss pressed against his mouth. They pull themselves from bed lazily, Connor more lazy than Hank. He talks about breakfast but Hank promises him something special today.

Once he’s dressed himself, he brings in the box of new clothes. A few pieces are special, meant to block UV’s and reflect the sun away, others are… well, they’re just to keep Connor covered so he doesn’t burn. He wonders what Connor will think of denim.

Connor is at his vanity with a modern mirror propped up, trying to get his hair into some semblance of style. Because even when it won’t be seen, he wants it to look nice.

“Con?” He lays the pieces over the bed for an easier time going through them, like Connor does for himself. “Undershirt, neck piece— just goes over your head, okay? There’s a few overshirts, here, to choose from…”

The look on Connor’s face as he peers as the clothes is… something. Like he’s interested but also horrified. “Those are… hm.”

“Hm? They’re ‘hm’?”

“They look like your clothes.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Hank squints over at him.

Connor raises his hands in surrender, a grin growing on his face. He swings his legs around and comes over, just in time to watch Hank take out the light wash jeans in what he’s hoping are Connor’s size. “Nothing bad. It’s only different… I do enjoy the way you look.”

“Oh, don’t try to butter me up after that.” he says, but he’s smiling. He dumps the other essentials on the bed, then starts to vacate. “Take your time, holler if you need anything.”

It takes Connor forty minutes. In that time, Hank lets Sumo out before feeding him, gets his things ready to go and Connor’s too. He didn’t think about getting him new shoes. Shit.

"Oh, Hank," He hears from upstairs, “What is this _fabric_?”

“What is it, bud?” he calls from the bottom step.

Connor steps out of his room. And Hank wishes he had his phone out for the exact moment. Connor’s in the clothes— the neck cover, the undershirt with a loose cotton t-shirt overtop, tucked into the pair of undone jeans that Connor is walking so stiffly in.

“They’re jeans. Denim. It’s thick, so—”

“Yes, I’d say!”

“And you look so nice, Connor!”

He gives Hank a look as he descends the stairs, all disgruntled beauty. “Don’t butter me up, Mr. Anderson.”

Hank reaches out before he touches, and does up Connor’s jeans for him. Then takes one hand at a time, guiding Connor’s thumbs through the holes in the undershirt. “I should’ve got gloves. I think I have some in a drawer…”

Connor pulls a pair of beautiful embroidered gloves from his back pocket, gently touching the weaved threads. “My mother’s.”

He can see the prickles of nervousness in the fidget of Connor’s hands. The way his back is so straight but his eyes don’t really leave the ground. He gently wraps his fingers around Connor’s, thumb rubbing against his cool fingerprints. “Connor. If you don’t want to do this, you don’t have to.”

“I do.” he looks up at Hank, and those bright blue eyes that remind him of the sky. “I want to see out there. With you.”

“Con…”

Cold fingers thread into his beard, so terribly romantic when he smooths the hairs down, with a simple tenderness Hank has forgotten he could be given. “I want to go with you.”

Hank doesn’t think he could deny Connor anything. He thinks he knew that from the start, too. He ducks his head and gives a weary sigh, gently finding Connor’s wrist to hold on.

“That’s a beautiful color.” Connor whispers, touching the flush coming up on Hank’s cheek.

Hank closes his eyes against the compliment. When he leans in to kiss him, it’s blind, only his thumb skirting the edge of Connor’s lower lip leading the way. And Connor lets out one of those hums, the one that says he likes it. The one that says he’s happy.

God. Hank could hear it for a hundred years and never get tired of it. Because it means too much. Connor, who went through terrible things again and again, who had human kindness ripped away from him for things he couldn’t control, who had to change his life drastically and hide himself away, who looked so scared and still does some days…

He makes this soft, involuntary noise. Whenever he fills his stomach, whenever he lays on the couch after a long, scorching bath. Whenever his warm blankets are tucked around him. Whenever he sits in the low light cast from the protected windows. And whenever he meets Hank with gentle intimacy.

Hank feels a small lump form in his throat when he whispers, “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Because of all the hurt that’s been thrown Connor’s way, Hank doesn’t want to be another that delivers the blows.

“You can’t stop that.” Connor replies against his lips, “But I know you’ll be right there. And that’s why I’m trying.”

Hank makes himself nod. When they meet eyes, Connor gives him the sweetest smile.

It’s cold enough outside where he can put a jacket on Connor and it still looks right. They situate the neck piece up over the back of his head, and top it with a hat, then the jacket’s hood, and the sunglasses now, and the gloves go on after, Connor’s gotten into his shoes and—

They’re both terrified. They won’t say it, but they are.

And when Hank grabs his keys, he knows they have to step outside. Opening the front door to the sound of rain against the cobblestones of the walkway, Connor inches forward. He ducks to the side of the door frame like he’s learned to do, and peers out like he’s looking at something alien. Hank guesses it kind of is. Connor only sees the world at night, in different shades of color, in less light. And he doesn’t go out the front door, ever. Hank steps out onto the porch, and offers his hand. “You’ll let me know?”

Connor slides out the front door like honey down the side of the jar. He jumps when the door, weighty and uneven with age, shuts behind him. He grabs onto Hank’s hand too tight.

“The last time I was out here…” Connor sounds far away, and his free hand points to the side where furniture no longer sits, “I’d listened to my mother play her violin, with carolers who had come to sing.”

“I bet it was beautiful, Connor.” Hank tells him, not moving an inch until Connor does.

“It was.” he whispers. It’s so different now, walking across the planks of wood and down those steps, in full view of the cloudy sun that keeps trying to catch a glimpse of him through the rain. He startles when the rain hits him, and feels the moment the sun touches him. He cracks Hank’s knuckles in his grip when he squeezes, but Hank doesn’t say a word. He can barely find his voice when he says, “I’m outside.”

Hank is right there at his side, squeezing his hand back. “Is it alright? Are _you_ alright?”

“Yes.” he breathes. Because physically he feels it, kind of like when he sits in front of the windows, and he knows he can’t be doing this for long… but he’s fine. Emotionally is a whole different story in a whole different book. “These magic clothes you've gotten me. I’m outside. It’s the _morning_ , Hank.”

“I know. I know it is,” Hank rubs his back and through all the layers it’s muffled. “You’re doing it… Do you want to keep going?”

“Yes, lead me.” He shakes their hands eagerly. Hank kisses his gloved knuckles, and brings him down the walkway towards the car. He even opens the door and holds Connor’s hand while helping him in.

“Alright.” he says, starting to buckle himself but then remembering. He leans across the seat to grab the passenger seat belt and Connor must think it’s for a kiss because he presses one to Hank’s lips as easy as ever.

He bashfully pulls Connor’s belt across and clicks it into place, adjusting it around his waist, “Uh, this is gonna keep you safe. Okay? We’re gonna be movin’. Like in those movies?”

“Oh.” Connor gives an embarrassed smile. ‘Yes, I understand.”

Hank buckles himself in and slots his key into the ignition, “We can kiss over breakfast. Deal?”

Connor seems like he’s going to agree, but Hank starts up the car and the loud rumble has him jumping out of his fucking skin. He throws his hand to Hank’s arm, “ _What_ is that?”

“It’s just the car.” he soothes, patting Connor’s sharp fingers. “There’s an engine. Remember the lawnmower?”

“The _lawnmower_!” Connor sneers in new understanding.

He shifts, a little pinned. “I know your feelings about the lawnmower. You okay?”

Connor heaves a sigh, “I am… I must learn the world by doing.”

“Good, good…” He nods along, patting Connor’s hand a little heavier, “Bud, you wanna let me go?”

The bruising grip vanishes immediately. “Oh! I’m sorry.”

He just gives Connor a smile and takes them slowly out of the driveway. The little unsure noises that eek out of Connor are pretty adorable. Whenever Hank goes over 20mph Connor’s hand flutters over his stomach like the motion and speed tickles him. “Butterflies giving you trouble, honey?”

“We’re racing along the street! It’s exhilarating!” Connor laughs.

Hank brings them to his favorite deli diner. Warm and dry, everything smells like coffee and there’s fresh sausage links made on site. Connor gravitates towards the smells with delight, taking in the place and the people in it. He’s subtly scanning the room, but he doesn’t look distressed.

“Good morning, Hank!” the redhead behind the counter says, giving a bright smile.

“Mornin’, Jerry.” He sidles up and leans his hip against the counter, squinting at the menu. “Let me trouble you for a small breve, turkey bacon egg sandwich with the yolk still running… oh, shove in those hashbrowns you make perfect? And…”

He turns to Connor, who's looking a little overwhelmed at all the options and all the screens. Jerry pats the counter, “I’ll get started on those, take your time.”

“Thanks.” Hank says faintly, reaching for Connor’s elbow, “Hey, bud? How’s it going?”

“There is a lot to look at.” He eyes Jerry as he steps away, then leans close. “Hank. That man smells different.”

“Hm?” Hank isn’t sure how to take whatever the fuck that means.

Connor spares a glance around, then takes a step closer. “ _You_ smell a certain way, you’re human and while unique, there is a distinguishing base. But _he_ … smells entirely different. He’s not human. We should leave.”

Oh. Yeah, that’s right.

Hank spares half a thought to the question of if vampires smell different than humans. Is that the cause of his nerves?

“Ah shit, of course.” Hank shakes his head with a comforting smile, “Con, you remember how I told you there’s different kinds of people? Jerry’s an android.”

"He's…?" Connor’s brows raise high above the rim of the sunglasses, “Oh. I didn’t think androids would look like that.”

“What did you think they would look like?”

“I hadn’t the faintest idea… antlers, perhaps? Bright eyes?”

Hank feels himself struggle not to smile. “Not really.”

“He looks just like you. Incredibly alive.” Connor muses, “And a trained chef.”

“Sure is. He made some of this.” Hank gestures to the glass case, where cold sandwiches and an array of breakfast foods sit on display. “What do you want for breakfast? Anything goes.”

“Anything?” Connor tips the sunglasses downward on his nose to see without filtering.

“Yeah, bud. They have sausages, bacon, ham, roast beef, turkey…”

Connor’s eyes light up, “Roast beef?”

And okay, Hank tries at home for the two of them, to make treats Connor liked from the past. Back when he had a whole kitchen staff. He knows, out of politeness and the fact Connor’s vampirism means he doesn’t need a lot of regular food anymore, that Connor doesn't speak up when they don't have a certain meal. Maybe if today goes smoothly, he’ll be able to go out with Hank to the markets, so that too can change.

“He can put something together just for you. Roast beef, cheese, tomatoes— whatever your heart desires.”

“That is a bold claim.” Connor smiles, stepping up to the counter when Jerry brings back Hank’s coffee. “Greetings. You look magnificently alive today. Could I acquire a helping of roast beef on bread from you?”

Jerry looks delighted. Connor glances back at the display case, and his hands fidget behind his back, “Perhaps… with provolone? And red onion, if available… and sticky honey, and a sliced hard-boiled egg?”

Connor sounds so excited. Hank thinks that’s the weirdest shit he’s ever heard. But Jerry nods, having taken the info in. Hank adds on while Connor’s trying to grab for his coffee, “Get him a cappuccino, too. Thanks, Jerry.”

“You have an odd friend, Hank.” Jerry tells him, chipper as ever.

Oh, Hank knows.

“What is cappuccino?” Connor whispers.

“It’s coffee, like mine.” Hank informs while snapping the lid back on his cup and moving it from Connor’s searching hands, “But it’s got chocolate.”

Connor looks at him like he’s lying.

But when Jerry brings everything back and Hank’s swiping his card, he sees Connor out of the corner of his eye, sniffing at his coffee with a mounting sense of astonishment. Hank brings them back to the car to eat, it’s quiet there, and Connor sits across the seat like a fancy lounge in the little legroom he has.

It makes him smile while he cranks the heat. They eat together in comfortable quiet, where Connor basks in getting just what he wants out of his tinfoil wrapped sandwich. He lets Hank take a bite and Hank in return allows him the same, and Connor peers out the windshield before he says, hushed, that he wishes to kiss him.

“All this excitement, Hank.” he hums, holding his coffee between both hands to feel the warmth. “It’s a wonderful day.”

“Is there anything you want to do next?” Hank reaches over to adjust his hood, loving the relaxed look of him coupled with the sound of rain pattering on the car.

“Next?” He wasn’t aware anything came next. He thought this was it.

“Yeah. A little trip around? Could take you to a store, if you want anything. Or to a park. It’s pouring buckets, but I’d still walk with you.”

Connor tucks his head towards one shoulder, “Hank. Do you think… Hm. No, no nevermind.”

“What is it? Come on.” He rubs at his beard to make sure there aren’t any crumbs hiding. Connor reaches out to smooth the edge of his mustache free of coffee foam.

“We don’t have to. But… do you think we could find music?” Connor asks tenderly, maybe feeling like he shouldn’t be asking. “That machine that plays the records, you showed me. Is there anywhere to get new music?”

Hank melts. He doesn’t know why. It’s such a simple thing. Hank could play any song he wanted off of his phone, but Connor wants something he can handle. Something to touch as part of the experience. And more, he probably wants to go home. It’s Connor’s first time out among people in a long time, and Hank thinks he’s excited as much as overwhelmed.

So he reaches across the seat and squeezes Connor’s knee, giving his best smile. “I know a nice, quiet place.”

The way Connor lights up isn’t vibrant like he sometimes is, but incredibly warm instead.

He takes Connor to a familiar, out of the way record store where the air is slightly tinged with cigar smoke. There’s rows and rows of records, and the light is low enough to make Connor feel at home. Hank keeps a little bit of distance, letting Connor browse at his pleasure. He lingers in the jazz section, admittedly. Connor lingers by the woman with the cigar at the front desk, and manages to charm his way into a few mouthfuls of smoke. It’s so nostalgic, this place, like some of the old parties he would go to. All that’s missing is a lounge couch and someone hanging off his arm.

He finds a suitable record and searches out Hank.

Connor has picked out a record full of slow dance songs. Arguable love songs. Hank hands over the jazz album he’s picked and his card too, scooting Connor towards the front. He presses a kiss to his cheek, which earns him a gasp. “Go on up and buy ‘em. I’ll start the car.”

Connor goes through the transaction flustered. The woman swipes the card for him when he hands it over, and slips the records into a bag. “You’re close with Anderson, huh, sugar?”

“Oh. Oh, I wouldn’t say _close_ …” he tries, fumbling with the little piece of plastic and the delicate bag.

“Sure.” She doesn’t sound at all convinced. “He’s a sweetheart. Glad to see him look at someone like that again.”

“He is rather sweet.” Connor agrees quietly, and excuses himself. Hank is waiting in the car when he comes out, and he climbs in quickly just to get to saying, “Mr. Anderson. I cannot believe you did that…”

“Did what?” Hank’s stomach drops. “You had that under control. I wanted to get this old bucket warmed up before you came out.”

“Not the purchases!” Connor takes off his sunglasses to rub the bridge of his nose, slow-pumping heart still trying to race. “The kiss.”

Hank didn’t even realize.

Oh, fuck. He didn’t even realize. He forgot himself for a split second. He just wanted to encourage Connor, so he did with a little peck. That’s just instinct for him. He fucked up thinking Connor might want that out here, too.

“Oh, Connor. I’m so sorry—”

“You have a reputation to uphold, Hank!” Connor reprimands, panicked. “People know you and respect you. You cannot forget yourself in public, even if it’s what we both want.”

What?

“What?” Hank shifts as much as his seatbelt allows, “You… You’re worried about _my_ reputation?”

“What else?!”

“Connor, I’ve been out as bi for forty years!” he explains through the whiplash, “It’s not an issue if we kiss in public!”

Connor stalls, his mouth hanging open. It’s a concept he did not think about. It takes him a long moment, where they’re both panting quietly from the hype, for Connor to whisper. “I could kiss you right now?”

Like he’s trying to make sure. Hank nods.

He all but throws himself across the seat to draw Hank into a tense kiss. The rain stampedes against the hood of the car, a real downpour now, and all of Connor is shaking. Hank holds him around the shoulders and catches his bony knees before they can ram into his thigh, trying to soothe and pet him down. The rasp of Connor’s glove cradling his face has him feeling some kind of way.

The tension bleeds out of Connor as they kiss, the slow drag of their mouths and Hank’s enthusiasm, Hank’s… desire to slow them down. It makes him feel secure that it’s real, that he doesn’t have to hide or sneak if he wants to experience real passion with someone. Not just a parlor trick of the unruly. The world seems to have gotten more beautiful during his time asleep.

Hank shushes him softly when they part, when he immediately tries to apologize, stroking his face so tenderly.

“I want to go home.” he whispers, brushing his cold nose to Hank’s. They’re both a little cold from the rain. Connor wants to change that.

“Whatever you want.” Hank promises.

The drive home is slow and serene through the sheets of rain. Connor takes his gloves off so they can hold hands, and watches the blurry world go by. Thankfully they're moving leisurely enough that it doesn’t fluster his stomach. Coming home is a comfort, the walls and roof of what he knows and none of the anxiety of hiding. Hank bustles quickly towards the front door, fumbling with his keys and grumbling like the damp old man he is. It's very sweet.

He walks slower. He lingers. The rain pours down on him and the sensation of it over his bare hands is beautiful. The air smells so good, the sound is heavenly, and he's reaching up to pull back his many hoods just to feel it on more of his skin.

Hank turns back when he doesn't hear Connor's boots on the steps behind him. He's about to call out for him, say they've earned a hot drink and a warm place to sit, but all the words in his throat evaporate seeing Connor out in the front garden.

Standing on a stepping stone while rain pours and the distant promise of thunder looms in heavy gray clouds, Connor has his eyes closed and his face turned up towards the sky. He's getting absolutely soaked, his hair is already dripping and Hank worries for his health because he's so damn cold to begin with.

But god, he's so damn beautiful. Hank leaves his keys in the lock and the bag propped up nearby when he takes his phone out to snap a picture. He can't help it, he wants this around forever. He wants this feeling to last forever.

Connor lets himself heave a heavy sigh, one that takes the tension and weight of the world off his shoulders. This may not be comfort, but it is immense relief.

When he looks at Hank, he's braving the rain again to come and get him. Always coming back for him, always checking in. He thinks Hank has a big heart to hold all he does. He reaches for Hank before Hank can reach for him, like he's silently trying to say he doesn't need to hesitate. Connor is used to the shape of him nearby now, he welcomes him close.

"You're good?" Hank asks, eyes so unbelievably blue that back in Connor's time he'd get nicknamed after precious gems.

He just steps forward, his hands like ice when they push Hank's wet hair from his face, cradling him there between his palms. "So good."

"Oh," Hank feels a little dizzy when he sees Connor leaning in. "Are we kissing in the rain? Are we really…?"

Hank's breath is hot but his mouth is cold when Connor gathers him close, and the way Hank just melts into his touch fuels Connor's body like giving coal to a steam engine. It pings up his spine and lights heat his gut and makes him want…

He pulls back to voice exactly what he wants, when Hank laughs breathlessly, leaning into Connor's palm with such pink cheeks. "Oh, man. That was… I've always wanted that."

He smiles in surprise, "What do you mean?"

"Like the movies. Getting kissed in the rain. I've wanted that since I was a teenager…"

If Connor's eyes build with tears, no one has to know. His smile is too bright anyway, flourishing up from his chest and threatening to burst him at the seams.

"It is an honor to fulfill such a tenderhearted wish." He praises, "For such a tenderhearted man…"

Hank shakes his head bashfully, ducking away from it with a chuckle. But Connor presses close, kissing raindrops from his cheek. "Don't hide yourself."

Hank tips his head up to brush their lips, arm slipping around Connor's middle. He begins walking them back to the door. "Not from you."

Things collected, they move inside and greet a delighted Sumo. Hank lets Sumo raise to his full height for a hug and to rub his nose into Hank's dripping hair. Connor gives the dog a few pets.

"I can start a fire, if you're cold." He offers, watching Hank peel himself from his wet jacket.

Hank groans indulgently at the idea, "That would be perfect, bud. Do you want me to start you a bath?"

Connor almost wants to ask if Hank will be in there when he arrives. He catches the thought right at the tip of his tongue. "That's most kind."

Hank heads upstairs to make Connor a boiling bath before getting himself into a hot shower. Connor listens to the pipes rattle with a fond smile while he prepares and nurtures the fire. He's glad this is the same, if the materials slightly different.

He stuffs his blankets into the dryer and slips off all of his wet clothing there in the laundry room, and pads upstairs to sink into his bath. Hank made it smell of chamomile again. It's his favorite.

When they meet again in the living room, Hank is bundled in a half zipped hoodie with his most loved pajama pants, and Connor has awarded himself a great comfort by getting into his mother's old chemise. The leg room it affords lets him bundle up on socks. Topped with a knit sweater Hank had gifted him, he's happily warm. Hank has made them hot chocolate, which Connor adores, and they settle together under warm blankets with Sumo alongside. Hank picks another old movie for them and once again ends up tucked into Connor's arm.

But once it's over, Connor gently slips away. Hank thinks maybe he'll go for a nap, very understandable seeing as he was up so early. But Connor surprises him. Over the edge of the book Hank's picked up, he watches Connor glide back into the room with the portable record player. On the coffee table, he quietly sets up the new record. The soft crackle mixes with that of the fire, then a slow piano trickles from the machine.

"Hank," he hums, eyes soft in the warm light, "Would you like to dance?"

Hank feels something surge through his body. And because he's a soft old man who can't deny Connor a damn thing, he pulls himself from the possessive cushions of the couch. "I haven't danced in a long time."

"Neither have I." He remarks. Hank's hand slides into his and he leads him around in front of the fireplace. "Tell me something."

"Hm?"

He takes Hank at the waist and laces their fingers, "Is dancing in front of the fire another wish I can fulfill for you?"

Hank turns a beautiful shade of red again. "It is now."

The piano is joined by a sweet singing violin, and they sway together more than dance. Connor can feel the way Hank relaxes into it, the way he leans on his partner and seeks out the closeness. Connor closes his eyes when Hank settles their foreheads together, giving a gentle smile.

"You're leading."

Hank chuckles, "You're falling asleep."

"I'm enjoying you." he whispers, saccharine and slow.

"And falling asleep."

"And falling asleep."

Hank waits until the song is done to lead Connor all the way to the couch, and let him rest.


	11. grief and the things you can’t fix

Connor crawls into Hank's bed during the twilight hours of the morning. The shock of his cold hand and the quiet upset sniffle thrust Hank into consciousness.

"Hank? Can I stay with you?" he whispers brokenly.

Hank is already opening the blankets for him, heavy with sleep. "What is it, honey?"

Connor doesn't answer. He curls into Hank's body and hides his face, as if Hank could see him in the inky darkness of his bedroom anyway. Connor's fingers curl in his shirt and he gathers him close, letting Connor press into his chest and hear his heart. His fingers rake lazily over Connor’s back while he starts slipping back into sleep.

“I finished Richard’s diary.” Connor says.

He sounds so defeated, so lost and accepting of that fact. It breaks Hank’s heart. He can’t imagine how hard it is for Connor, gathering scraps of his life both good and bad. It made him sad, seeing some of his family’s things, but he loved his brother’s writing.

“Connor, I’m so sorry.” he whispers, fingers slipping into the hair at the back of Connor’s head.

“It’s fine… I’m fine.” Connor says, muffled into Hank’s soft chest. He doesn’t sound fine at all.

“Maybe so,” he plays along, shifting his chin down to speak nearer to him. “But that’s a heavy thing to deal with.”

Connor sniffs quietly, fingers tightening. “It… does weigh heavy in my heart.”

“Oh, honey.” he rubs at Connor’s messy curls, “Maybe it’s time, y’know, to open his room.”

“No.” Connor breathes the word like he’s frightened of it. Which Hank can understand and be worried about at the same time. Connor’s lost so much, keeping Richard’s door locked is… maybe a way of keeping him alive. A preservation attempt. But Hank thinks if Connor wants to move on, he has to face that door. He has to open it to get through it.

Hank just holds him closer, and remembers he can’t fix it.

He leaves Connor in his bed come morning, after gently tucking the blankets around him.

And Connor mopes. A lot, over several days. He rereads Richard’s diary and lets Hank look at it with him, shows him dried flowers and old paper money. Connor tears up over the playbill to a theatre showcase dated just a week and a half after his funeral. On the bill among a handful of faces, a young woman is circled, and on the back it says ‘ _she dedicated it to you_ ’.

“She was a good friend… more than a friend.” Connor says, sighing at the lipstick kiss on the bill. “She was a magician, Hank. People thought she was a witch… she wanted them to.”

“Wasn’t that a little taboo back then?” Hank asks, giving him another tissue because it’s that kinda day.

“Mm. Her grandmother was tried as a witch, so it was an act in honor of. She played into it so heavily, it was stunning.” Connor manages something like a smile, “She pulled coins from my ear to make me laugh.”

Hank finds him another day, slouched on the couch with a deep-set frown. Moping, Connor says, “I’ve watched four vampire films… do they really believe all that?”

“There’s a lot of bullshit, honey.”

“Yes… It seems they believe I’m vacant of soul.” Connor huffs, “Difficult when I feel the weight of mine like bags of brick.”

Hank doesn’t know what to say.

Connor also looks at all the portraits of his family. The ones off the wall, the ones he sets around him, unhidden from white and dusty sheets. He surrounds himself with them, with notes he’s gathered together from the dirt; his mother’s name on a piece of sheet music, Richard’s letters and trinkets, a faded embroidery hoop marked with the name E. Stern.

“Connor, honey,” Hank sighs, his heart pulling heavy in his chest when he sees Connor crumpled on the floor with all these things. “Don’t sit with ghosts. Please.”

“I don’t know how to leave them.” Connor admits, his voice rough.

Hank feels it well up in his throat, the sorrow, but he doesn’t know if it’s his own or if it’s Connor’s. It’s like a punch to the fucking chest. He felt in the beginning there would be a time like this, when it would be rough, and in the beginning he had no idea how he would deal with it.

But he does now.

“You come with me.” he says, swallowing back the pull of feeling he doesn’t want to fall into. “You get up off the ground, and you come home with me.”

Connor looks back at him, tears in his eyes. Hank holds out his hand.

“Come on home, Connor. They don’t need you anymore.”

“And you do?” The words have bite, however small, when Connor gives them. Almost like an accusation he doesn’t believe. It’s one of the saddest questions he’s ever asked.

“Of course I do.” Hank’s voice is just as firm, his hand inching out further, “Of course I fucking do, and don’t you start forgetting, old man.”

Connor’s smile looks like it hurts and the touch of their skin when he reaches out a shaking hand makes him cling. “The _language_ on you, Mr. Anderson.”

“All yours.” Hank murmurs into his hair as he takes him from the room, from the memories both fond and feared that haunt him nonetheless.

Connor looks at him for a long time. Peers at him in a way that’s not entirely just for the attraction of it. And Hank can’t stand it. He lays Connor on the couch and covers his eyes, tucking his head towards Connor’s neck when he whispers, “Don’t look at me like you’re trying to remember.”

“You’re so beautiful.” he whispers back.

Hank leans up to kiss him, hush him. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Tell me again.” he requests, soft as ever, as his hands find Hank’s shoulders.

“I’m not going anywhere from you.” Hank promises, as if that’s a promise he could ever hope to keep the way Connor deserves. He brushes their lips, feeling Connor’s lashes flutter under his palm. He lets the kisses that follow wash over him, trying to pour as much adoration into them as he can, trying so fucking much to hear that hum bubble out of Connor. It may be a little broken, but it is there.

“Hank,” Connor says once Hank has stopped kissing him and started hugging him to his chest where they lay on the blessedly wide couch, like some sort of two part therapy. “I think… it’s time we opened Richard’s room.”

Hank can’t fix it. He can’t fix it. But he’s so proud that Connor can.

The next morning, Connor looks so uncomfortable with Hank's phone pressed to his ear. Hank knows he's supposed to be doing yard work, but watching Connor peek anxiously through the curtain at him like he's making sure Hank is there for support, while also happy for his privacy is… it’s fucking funny.

Connor _is_ thankful for the privacy. Because this is embarrassing. He wishes he could send word with an errand boy, a nice hand-written note. But, no. He has to endure the startling moments the locksmith answers the phone and speaks too loudly.

"Hello. My name is Connor—" he falters. He absolutely falters. He can't tell this man who he is. "Ah, Connor Anderson. And I need a door opened in my home. The key has been lost for… many years."

The man asks him a few questions about the door, how old it is and such. Connor explains, then he's giving the address. The man whistles, saying his grandfather used to talk about that damned house like it was haunted. Connor says he can come and see the ghost.

He dresses himself as much like Hank as he can. He thinks about the jeans and then shoves them under his bed. He steals a pair of sweatpants and ties them tight around his natural waist the way he’s used to. But he wears one of those tshirts Hank got for him, a simple deep forest green that he enjoys. He thinks he’s done well.

When the locksmith arrives, he’s an older man with a quiet smile and walks in with, “Afternoon, Mr. Anderson.”

He says it to Connor. Which Hank… doesn’t say anything about. But he does side-eye Connor something heavy, and Connor ducks away from the gaze to show the locksmith in. He keeps his distance, watching in mild horror while Richard’s bedroom door is fiddled with.

“Connor, do you want lunch?” Hank tries to coax him into a calm distraction.

“No, thank you.” Connor says, clipped. Not even looking anywhere but the door.

He gives Connor a gentle squeeze to the arm, then slips down to where he’s holding his hands firmly behind his back. He presses a few bills into Connor’s palm and brushes a kiss to his temple, “To pay him. Let me know if you need me.”

Hank starts to walk back down the stairs when he hears Connor tell him lightly, “Don’t go far from me.”

Hank promises.

It doesn’t take too long. It’s almost like the sound of the lock clicking open sends a deafening silence throughout the entire house. Hank sets down his unfinished coffee to hustle to the stairs. The door is cracked open and Connor is holding the knob, like he grabbed it to prevent the door from swaying open. He looks panicked in a very held-together way, very _proper_. Very good at hiding his feelings, something learned and perfected.

“Thank you.” Connor says politely, if obviously distracted, and holds out his handful of money.

Gathering his tools, the locksmith gives a simple nod and smile. He sets the change into Connor’s slack hand. “You were right, it was a damn old lock. Beautiful, though. Glad I could open it for ya.”

Connor nods distantly, giving a fake smile, “Yes. Thank you.”

Hank walks the man to the door and waits until he’s backing out of the driveway to climb the stairs back to Connor. He’s already inside. And he sees the tension all along Connor’s back. Shoulders stiffened up and as still as a statue. Hank doesn’t know if this is one of those times he can touch Connor.

Richard’s room is entirely preserved, if musty as all hell. The curtains are drawn closed, and unlike the rest of the house, nothing is covered by sheets. Richard’s bedroom is whole, to the perfectly turned down bed sheets. It’s like going back in time.

Connor takes tentative steps further into the room, and Hank wishes he could see his face. “Connor?”

“It’s like being home.” he whispers. Home, so many years ago. “I don’t know what I expected. It’s like… He could walk in any minute.”

He moves through uneasily, like he can’t believe the space wasn’t lost to the past with the rest of the house. It’s disorienting. In the corner sits an easel with an unfinished painting, the brush and little globs of paint left out. Shoes in the corner and a worn pair of pants tossed onto a bench, a book open on the desk like it’s still being read. The bed creaks when Connor sits down heavily, and his fingers reach out to the clothes folded on the top quilt.

“These are mine.” He says, soft and confused and steeped with something held back. He lifts up the lavender shirt, creased with folds decades old, and thumbs over the intricate fish pin on the front. “My favorite.”

“Why would it be in here?” Hank asks gently, looking uncomfortable only one step into the room. He doesn't want to fuck with anything, it's creepy and fascinating and very much makes Hank feel like he doesn't belong. He's not a part of this, he's out of his depth.

"It doesn't make any sense." Connor mumbles, pulling the shirt with him when he stands. He looks around the room like he's trying to find the only thing missing, and his face slips more and more into a deep dislike for the situation. "It doesn't make _sense_."

It's something he can't deal with. Finding Richard's diary is one thing, where things were written after he was taken away. Things he didn't know, thoughts he read anew. This… This is how he remembers it. He doesn't even think Richard made progress on the painting. It's like the room is frozen in time, and it's not fair. So much has changed, and the one thing he hoped to glean new understanding from is exactly the same. The addition of Connor's clothes is new, but nothing else. Not even the fucking bed sheets. And it messes with his head something fierce. He takes it personally, like a strike to his heart from fate itself.

And it makes him deeply, quietly, held tight like a chokehold in his lower chest… angry. And it's that anger that makes him stride from the room, bringing Hank with him, and shut the door from the new world all over again. His favorite shirt still clutched in his fist, he shakes his head to the middle distance where his eyes aren't focusing, and tells Hank a lie. "It's too much."

It's not enough.

It's not lost enough.

It's not far enough from him to mourn and sort through because everything is in its goddamn place as if that part of him is still alive. As if the Connor Stern he was could sit on that bed and watch his brother finish that fucking painting as he'd seen it started.

Hank, bless his heart, gently runs his fingers through Connor’s hair and cups his cheek. “You let me know if there’s any way I can make it easier.”

He leans into that warmth, wanting so badly to melt into it. But he gives a smile that doesn’t really meet his eyes and presses a kiss to Hank’s cheek. “That’s kind of you, Hank.”

Connor quietly shuts himself in his bedroom, and Hank knows he can’t follow.

Cole visits again, less in a work capacity this time (although he can never leave his work behind, like father like son he chose a career that can easily follow you home) and makes Hank dinner. He sets some aside for Connor, but Hank tells him he probably won’t be joining. He sounds sad even to his own ears.

They watch the Gears game live, with Sumo draped over Cole and his tail swishing in pure adoration. Hank is happy to have this, to enjoy this time with his family. He wishes Connor was here to enjoy it, too. Cole's a good chef too, Connor would probably like the beef and veggies. Not to mention the commercials on TV and the warm spot on the couch right next to Hank.

"Your test results were pretty good." Cole tells him over ice cream, while they're sitting during a commercial.

"Yeah? I've been feeling better." He admits. And absolutely does not admit that it's because Connor gets him pleasure high at regular intervals and feels sweeter on him than spun sugar.

"That's good to hear." Cole smiles at him from across the couch, laying down so Sumo's bulk still clinging to him is more spread out. "Maybe we can stretch out your transfusions. You barely need them as it is, it's all just top up care. You're only getting the allotment now because the company still doesn't want to admit they fucked up your surgery, and think this will make up for it."

"Damn fucking right." He remarks, weary and still a little angry. But it's done with and is what it is. "I still say drain 'em for all they got. They don't question shit because they can't without the risk of me being 'unhappy with their premium care'. We got the CPAP for Chris and the TENS unit for Gav, so."

"Help those in need. That's my oath. If their insurance wouldn't pay for it…"

"Then the one that almost killed me will." Hank spits. "Rich people healthcare, where I could get a spa treatment as a 'preventive aging service'."

"Still mad you won't go to the spa." Cole comments.

Hank gives him a flat look. "Not for me."

He's gotten equipment before for people who actually needed it, and in Hank's mind taking from a corrupt company who hoards too many assets anyway, is justice. Because they don't want to get sued for everything they have and Hank at the time didn't have the energy to go through the process.

He thinks of Connor. Someone else in need. Even just the leftovers of Hank's meds had helped him, kickstarted his recovery to the point where he looks human again. As he deserves to. Connor, by now, deserves the world.

But Hank may be biased.

"Cole." he says, ice cream forgotten in his hands. "Keep requisitioning the supplies. Okay? I may not need them, but I met someone who does."

Cole's face turns concerned. "Who? How bad are they if they need this?"

Hank waves his hand to pump Cole's breaks before the kid gets himself riled up. "Hey, hey. They're alright, it just… it would help out, y'know? It's like ah, a deficiency?"

"I hope they're not too compromised." Cole says, as he begrudgingly settles back against the arm of the couch, "You'd tell me, if whoever this is needs a professional, right?"

"Of course!" He’s not so sure he’d tell the whole truth. If they did.

"Dad."

Hank softens, "I would. You know I would. I know you're good at your job."

Cole gives a short sigh, “Doesn’t matter how good I am if I can’t get to someone. Just, let them know I don’t judge. I only want to help.”

“Scout’s honor, kid.” He gives Cole’s ankle a reassuring squeeze and gets thumped by Sumo’s tail for it.

When Cole leaves it’s well into the night, and he pulls Hank in for a hug and promises to text when he’s home safe. He cleans up the house and lingers a bit, wondering if he can check in on Connor. Sumo sits at the bottom of the stairs with those big, soft eyes. Hank agrees.

He makes Connor a cup of tea and brings in his blankets along, gently knocking before peeking his head in. Connor’s sitting in the chair near the window, turned away from Hank in the dark. He turns and his eyes glint like a cat’s exposed to light, sclera black like shiny obsidian mirrors. He looks almost embarrassed. “Hank. Hello.”

“Hey, bud. Mind if I come in?” Hank gets the go ahead and shuffles inside, giving a gentle smile. Connor rises from his seat when he sees everything Hank’s toting and comes around to help. Hank sets the tea down and holds out one of the blankets. Connor hesitantly turns and lets it be draped along his shoulders, “Got these for you. Cole came by and made us dinner. Left you a good helping.”

“That’s kind, when he’s never met me.” Connor remarks, watching with a tender heart as Hank spreads the other blanket over the bed. He crawls in and allows Hank to tuck him in, warm blankets against his body and bedding overtop. He feels guilty ignoring Hank all night, but he could not sit normally with his anger, with the rest of his feelings and thoughts. Hank doesn’t deserve anything ill. So when Hank looks at him fondly and then starts to leave, he reaches his hand out. “Hank, will you keep me company?”

He looks happily surprised, “Of course, bud.”

He settles in on the other side of Connor’s bed and situates a pillow behind his lower back. He’s got a twinge in there that won’t leave him alone, he thinks it’s from digging out the garden plots today. It makes him smile when Connor offers him some blanket, it’s an excuse to scoot a little closer.

Connor retrieves the tea, in one of the old teacups with the saucer too, and his lower lip absolutely does not wobble at feeling the tenderness in it all. It’s also made exactly the way he likes it best, and that… Hank is so _good_ to him.

“I’m sorry,” he says, into the steam of his cup. “I left rather swiftly, and I didn’t mean to be frigid.”

“Connor,” Hank says, and god does he love the way it sounds in Hank’s mouth, “Don’t be apologizing, now. You’ve been through a lot, and it’s not a crime to need alone time. No matter how lovely your company is.”

He cracks a smile, “Mr. Anderson.”

“Mm. Mr. Stern.” Hank reaches over to squeeze his knee.

“Thank you, for trying with so much heart.” he says quietly, hoping Hank knows how much he truly means it.

“Ah, bud.” Hank sighs and leans over to give his temple a smooch. It flares the pinch in his back but he pays it no mind.

Connor does feel him wince. “Are you in pain?”

“Just my back. I’m an old man, remember? Probably from the garden.”

“Would you like me to…?” Connor timidly gestures to his mouth, his teeth. He could simply soothe the pain. Hank is making that garden for them. He was the one to ask for more space.

“It’s fine.” Hank tells him. He makes a soft noise to indicate he thinks otherwise. Quiet washes over them for a bit, and he can’t stop looking at Hank from the corner of his eye. He likes the way Hank gets comfortable in his presence, and his colorful socks, and the way he laces his fingers over his soft belly, and…

Well, he knows he’s a fool for Hank. That’s all clear.

He takes another sip from his tea, teeth first. Hums softly at the curl of warmth it pushes over his face.

He offers the cup to Hank.

_Share from my plate. Take from my body. Drink from my cup._

Hank looks at the offering, the way the tea swirls thicker than it was, and sighs at the double sweetness of the offer. Connor just wants him to be okay. So, he takes it, and takes a nice long sip, and feels the subtle relaxation of his muscles come just as the cup returns to Connor’s hands.

“The things you do to me…”

“And to all the more I’d like to.” Connor murmurs, raising the cup.

Quiet lapses again, so comfortable between them. Sumo snuffles his way through the door, giving a sniff to a few pieces of furniture and clothing, before depositing himself at the foot of the bed. He watches Connor with those big, loving eyes and licks Hank’s ankle in greeting.

“Hey, Con?” Hank leaves his voice low, not much more than a whisper. “What did you mean, when you were telling me about androids? About the smell.”

“Ah. You have a certain smell, as an individual human. But all humans have a similar scent. I was surprised, because I’d never seen anyone who looked so human but did not smell human.” Connor explains, liking the way Sumo moves around until he’s laying on top of his feet. It does nice to warm up his double-socked feet.

“What did he smell like?”

Connor smiles distantly, “Well… hm. I haven’t explained that in a while. He smelled… a bit like oil. It may not be kind, but similar to oils for machines, or paints.”

“They have special bio-oils to keep their joints going, like… spinal fluid and things.”

“Hm, and he smelled green.”

Hank looks over at him, “…Green?”

“Mhmm. Green, like of the earth.”

A soft huff of laughter puffs from Hank’s belly. “Most people say ‘synthetic’. Like, not of the earth.”

“If they were made from non-human material, by humans in the human image… are they not of the earth, Hank? From the very soil?”

Oh. Hank never thought of it that way, and he’s sure many others never have either. It’s kind of beautiful, the way Connor sees the world without certain filters. With all the ways he steeled himself from the world, he’s so incredibly soft.

“I guess you’re right. I bet Jerry would be happy to hear that… Few of my other friends, too.” Hank feels contentment hit him deeper, an easy smile on his face. “You’re somethin’, Con.”

Connor gently reaches over to lay his hand over Hank’s.

“What did you mean?” he asks after they both watch the way their hands settle together, their fingers thread through one another’s. “In the car. When you said you’d been out as _bi_ for forty years?”

Hank hums, hoping if they hold hands long enough he can make Connor’s fingers warm. “Like, bisexual, you know? I’m into men and women, and really anyone else, but some people have more specific labels for that. I’m comfortable with bi.”

Connor hums as well, and sits with that for a few long moments. Then he hums again, like when he’s quietly happy. “I think I’m like that, too. What a wonderful thing.”

The way Connor says it so softly pulls at Hank’s heart. He leans to press his lips to the top of Connor’s head while he gives his hand a squeeze.

Connor squeezes back.


	12. my immortal enemy the sun and other classic hits

Hank finally gets the solar panels out of storage. He put them away before he moved so they wouldn’t get broken, but taking a trip with Sumo as his trusty sidekick to pack them between picnic blankets in the bed of the stationwagon, he’s setting them up outside with no issue. The place gets plenty of sunshine, especially the space beyond the back garden.

Connor slides outside from the back door, slathered in sunscreen and wearing the huge floppy hat he’d fallen in love with at the mom and pop shop Hank had brought him to for farm fresh eggs. He peeks over the edge of his sunglasses and squints hard, “Hank… What do you have, there?”

“They’re solar panels, baby!” he yells with a good measure of excitement. They do a pretty good job and he’s proud that he can set them up all by himself.

“Solar…” Connor remarks. “As in, the sun?”

Hank makes sure his bundle of wires aren’t all twisted up from being stored, “Yeah! Almost done, then how’d you like to go get some ice cream?”

“Mr. Anderson…” He hears Connor say incredulously. “You’re using the sun? Connecting our home to the _sun_?”

Hank looks over at him, face the embodiment of pure shock and surprise. Connor, behind his glasses, looks distraught as well as Hank can see.

“You’re benefiting from the sun?! My immortal enemy, Hank?! In my home, Hank!” Connor’s voice rises as he shouts and Hank goes completely fucking flabbergasted. It’s like he shifts into the secondary twilight zone, because he’s already made his home in the first.

“Connor…?” he starts around his mouth hanging open, “Wh… It’s, it’s—”

Hank watches Connor’s mouth curl up into a big grin, and Hank’s entire soul snaps back into his body at the speed of light.

“You little shit!”

Connor’s laugh is beautiful.

Loud and free and from the depths of him where joy and mischief haven’t reached in a long time.

“I oughta teach you a lesson for scaring the shit out of an old man!” Hank’s laughing himself, relief palpable. The drama in Connor’s voice when saying even the most ridiculous shit is incredible. “‘My immortal enemy, the sun!’ Oh my _god_.”

He waves the instructions slip he must have gotten from the box inside, making sure to tip his hat down when he steps off the porch to join Hank. There’s laughter still in his voice when he says, “This is very interesting, though! Harnessing the sun this way! It gives us more power for the internet, yes?”

Hank can’t help the smile straining his cheeks. Connor prioritizes the internet as the top futuristic thing to say, always. “Yeah, bud. Fuckin’-A, you had me going.”

“And going and going…” Connor looks so bright when he pulls Hank down under the cover of his hat for a kiss. He wipes the smidge of sunscreen from Hank’s beard when he pulls away, the rasp of vintage gloves against him. “You said ice cream?”

“If you’re up for it, of course.” Hank squeezes his hip before he kneels back down to fuss with the remaining ports on the solar panels.

Connor drops down beside him, pulling at the hem of his sock to make sure his ankle stays covered. “The warmth of the sun is… tolerable today.”

“Just tolerable?”

“I get a little too hot, too fast.” he explains, “But… if I could be assured ice cream sodas were to be offered…”

“You guys had those?” Hank asks with a little too much awe and Connor gently shoves him with a shoulder.

“ _Yes_ ,” he says, and holds a panel up when Hank needs more hands. He feels so much stronger these days. “And they were delicious, though they made me feel a bit sick after the fact.”

Hank snorts. “Wonder how you’ll do now. Sugar is powerful against old age. I eat Halloween candy and it hurts my damn nerves.”

“If that’s the way I go.” Connor shrugs, and enjoys the bark of laughter from Hank. Even more when Sumo barks from inside and comes to see what they’re making noise about.

It’s only a little later when the three of them are climbing into the car. Connor bundled and covered and not yet overheated. Hank with his hair tied back and his glasses on that tint in the sun. Connor thinks it’s amazing, but he can’t stare at Hank long because Sumo, in his little professional vest, wants to sit between his feet for the car ride.

He’s gotten so soft on this very smart dog. He signs ‘good boy’ with his hands the way Hank taught him and Connor can hear the swish across the footwell as Sumo’s tail kicks into high gear.

He keeps his head down for some of the drive, the backsplash of light a little too intense. But Hank’s hand is there to hold and Sumo’s head is there to pet when he looks away from the world, and that is wonderful to him. He wishes Richard could see this.

Their arrival at the ice cream shop is an exciting affair. Sumo seems to recognize the street and nearby signage and while Connor is still waiting, his excitement shoots through the roof. His whole body wiggles and the joyous little rumbles and whines start, which makes Connor’s head snap up to look around. That’s when Hank gets excited too, seeing the two of them straining their necks to look at the pastel building as he finds a parking spot in the shade of a tree.

The shop does well to look set in the past. Bright, a little washed out, with the 50s diner seats Hank knows are inside. He tries to block the sun for Connor as they walk to the entrance, like he’s taken to doing lately. He lets Connor do his customary walk around the place to take it in and adjust his feelings before he speaks to anyone, and gets his usual order and Sumo’s too.

When Connor comes back over, he reaches for Hank’s hand without a glove on. Hank basks in the familiar feeling of his chilly fingers. “And one ice cream soda, please.”

“Ice cream of choice?” he’s asked.

“Surprise me on both accounts, thank you.”

When they sit down in a booth and Hank’s making sure Sumo doesn’t gobble his cone in three bites, Connor takes his first sip and immediately shoves back further in his seat.

“ _Hell_!” he whispers loudly, blinking behind his sunglasses.

“Connor? Is it—” Hank doesn’t even have to finish the question because he gets his answer.

“It’s incredibly rich.” Connor announces in that way he does, so young and so old at the same time. He takes a long sip before he carries on, like he can’t help himself. “Astounding! I don’t understand how they do it, it’s as good as I remember.”

“It’s probably sweeter than you remember, but nostalgia’s hooked you.” Hank sets his cone into the dish so he can snap a photo.

“It can have me, this is good.” Connor whispers with pure adoration.

“Sugar fiend.” Hank murmurs, and lets his foot nudge Connor’s under the table. He gets a nudge back, and then the tip of Connor’s shoe is brushing his ankle. Scandalous.

They sit happily while they eat, people watching and talking about what they could do when they get home. There may be a comment from Hank that he would soothe Connor’s upset skin with the aloe he bought… if needed, if asked for. Connor may be a little risque and invite the advance.

Connor’s very happy when the jukebox in the corner gets used. Sumo catches the eye of a few kids and gets the go ahead to trot over and say hello. Hank reaches across the table to hold Connor’s hand and the doe eyes Connor lands his way as a 50s bop plays in the background like a summer blockbuster really sends Hank’s heart soaring.

“Hank?” Connor gathers his attention while he peers at the pushpin board on the wall, “There’s a museum in town?”

“Local history and art, yeah. It’s about a half hour drive.” He offers the time because he thinks he knows what’s about to be asked.

Connor smiles at him in that certain way Hank’s learned means he’s about to be super sweet. “Would you like to go? Would you do me the honor of accompanying me?”

“Sounds like you’re asking me on a date, Mr. Stern.” Hank runs his thumb back and forth along Connor’s knuckles.

“What else, but to have someone so handsome on my arm?” Connor tells him, and Hank nearly melts.

He’s a damn sucker for the sweet talk.

Hank didn’t think he’d be doing dates in his sixties. Now he can’t say yes fast enough.

The museum is a mix of new and old in terms of look. Renovations and new additions and wings for exhibits. Hank gets them their little badges, Sumo included, and Connor picks out a map of the building to bring along. Hank is about to ask him if he wants to stop and look at it, to pick where he’d like to go, when Connor simply offers his arm. A souvenir, then. He looks confident, and so damn handsome even with eighty percent of him covered from view. Hank lets their arms loop together, remembering every period romance he’s ever watched to gently place his hand right, and Connor is delighted.

Hank happily follows Connor’s lead into the painting wing. He sees Connor rise a little higher, hold himself like such a gentleman out on a stroll and it sings in Hank’s heart. They pause politely at each painting, give it a look and a thought and sometimes share those with each other. Sumo indulges them whenever they want to linger, head on a lazy swivel like the most adorable guard.

“Oh, come here.” Hank says excitedly when he spots a familiar canvas in the ever-changing modern arts corridor. He brings them over to the third piece on the wall, gesturing to the bright canvas.

“These are for sale? How nice.” Connor smiles, looking up at the splashes of yellows and greens, showing a scene of a woman amongst a field of sunflowers. The bright fire of her hair stands out. The canvas is signed ‘M. Manfred’.

“They help fund the museum, especially the restoration department.” Hank explains, but is more eager to say next, “I know the artist. His name is Markus.”

Connor brightens with the realization, “You know an accomplished artist, Hank?”

“Yeah, he’s a good guy! He works here, when he’s not doing volunteer work, painting, and taking care of his father with his brother.” He praises, so happy to see on the interface there are currently three offers on Markus’ work. “Always so damn busy, but happily so.”

“If I had money anymore, I’d commission him.” Connor tells him, which is high praise as well. Hank squeezes his arm and leans to kiss his temple, but gets blocked by the flop of his hat. Connor still glances around but he tips the brim up to chastely kiss Hank’s cheek. “You know, that’s not very proper of me to sneak a kiss during a date.”

“I’ve seen dates that are _just_ kissing.” Hank responds, smitten. Connor gives a wide-eyed, playfully scandalized look - while looking just the tiniest bit intrigued.

They browse through the rest of the paintings, and then Hank takes Sumo aside to the water fountain to fill up his little foldable bowl. Connor wanders nearby, elegantly slipping around the lines of sunlight the large windows in the lobby let in, the same way he would do at home. Hank gets caught up watching him while he pets Sumo along the back.

“He’s really somethin’, isn’t he?” he says fondly, to Sumo. He swears the little head tilt Connor gives to turn his ear towards, and the hint of smile that graces his face, means he can hear it. Which Hank immediately shoves out of his brain whether or not it’s true, because that means Connor’s heard a lot of stuff. He’s too polite to say so, and Hank is now too flustered to ask. He ducks his head to look squarely at the marble floor and wipe Sumo’s jowls before he drips anywhere.

When they’re ready, Connor has left the lobby. A little bit of anxiety bleeds into him, but reminds himself he doesn’t need to keep eyes on him every second they’re in public. Connor will call out for him if he feels sick or gets lost. And it’s great, just as Hank self-soothes himself out of that feeling, Connor turns back into the room with unbridled joy.

“Sumo.” Connor calls, offering out his hand. Sumo goes after checking on Hank and puts his paw in Connor’s palm. “Hank, hurry. You must see this.”

“Why’d you invite him first?” He straightens his jacket and makes his way over.

“Because then I know you’d have no choice.” Connor is beaming.

As if he had a choice before, with feeling the way his heart turns tender when Connor happily _exists._ Connor takes his hand this time, to pull him along as if Hank wouldn’t keep following him. And Hank immediately realizes why. The room opens up to an exhibit of… a street.

A street that looks taken from a hundred years in the past. It’s old cobblestone and an array of storefronts, doors and displays and streetlights. The trees are fake but Connor’s enjoyment is not. He stops as his feet hit the cobblestone, wearing his shoes that match the ground he walks on in years and travel.

For a moment, Hank thinks this might hit hard. This might be too much.

But then Connor turns to him and he looks like he might burst at the seams, his smile is so big, “Hank, I know every place here. I assure you, I know them all. I walked this street!”

Hank feels like he could fucking cry. The pure relief. “Did you, bud?”

“Yes! Let me show you.”

Because Hank has shown him his world, but Connor never believed he would get to do the same. Especially like this!

Connor takes them around with such familiarity, his walk as confident as could be. He shows Hank a silversmiths shop, where he absolutely does not touch anything to do with the building. Then the jewelers, where he tells Hank there would be ladies outside always conversing on how gold or silver complimented their complexions. He says his mother looked beautiful in gold and white diamonds, along with her red roses. The facts and memories pour out of him, and Hank listens with rapt attention.

He talks about the men who would sit and smoke cigars on the public bench, and if he was feeling playful he’d join them to chat and take a few puffs for himself. He even points out the char marks on the bench seat. They see the fine shoe shop, where Connor got the very ones he’s wearing, then the drug store where a displayed cough syrup bottle has fucking chloroform listed as an ingredient. “Oh, it worked very well. I wouldn’t cough for the rest of the night into the next day.”

“Because you were passed the fuck out, Connor.”

“Quite. Very helpful!”

There’s the barber shop where Richard would always go, and when Connor tries the door handle, it creaks open. Hank doesn’t go in but he watches from the window when Connor shows him the exact seat his brother would always sit in. Second chair down. Connor huffs at the mirror so it must be original.

Connor grimaces at the front of the clothing store. He launches into a lecture on how the bustle of the displayed dress is misaligned and how it _never_ should be, while he dips under the skirts to fix it. Hank hears him bitching even under all the layers. He doesn’t think Connor’s supposed to touch it, but there’s no visible sign saying not to, so Hank just lets him.

They stop at the shop with a large Confections sign above the door, a bunch of empty displays and jars inside, and Connor metaphorically clutches his peals. “I would come here every Thursday. They made soft caramels on Thursday, when the sea salt resupply from father’s company would come in the day before. The owner knew me, and would set some aside entirely for me.”

“Ah, Connor. That’s sweet.” Hank rubs across his back, quietly happy out of his damn mind. All the information he’s gaining, these glimpses of Connor’s life. He dips his head to see in the window while Connor’s still marveling over the outside.

“From before I could see over the counter, mother would give me four coins that would fill my palm, and I would wait in line. Caramels for me and Richard adored the peppermint sticks.” Connor remembers, a very old sense of nostalgia and longing filling his heart. Perhaps a little bittersweet, but he feels as though it may always be.

“Hey, Connor… What were the caramels like?”

“Oh, delicious! Little squares, sprinkled with sea salt, wrapped in little wax packages…”

“You mean like those?” Hank points through the window, to the metal serving tray on the counter. The little plaque with the title, ‘ _The Local Sweet Treat_ ’. And the caramels, wrapped like presents in wax paper twists.

Connor gasps, and all but runs into the shop. Hank follows this time to read the note from the museum staff encouraging visitors to take them, and that they’re made in the original recipe. He bumps Connor’s elbow as he picks one up, “Go on.”

“I don’t have any money.” Connor says.

“You don’t need it, they’re free to take. It’s an interactive exhibit.” Hank explains, putting his own in his pocket for later. He nods when Connor looks to him for confirmation, and all that brightness comes back.

Connor takes three, and immediately opens one to savor everything about it. He smooths the wrinkles in the wax paper, smells the candy and looks at the flakes of salt overtop. When he finally eats it, it’s a moment of bliss. Hank watches him have a full-on face journey.

“That good, honey?” he asks, glancing at the info plaque while Connor gives a happy ‘ _mhmm_ ’, “These were real popular, evidently they always sold out by midday… Damn, like the farmer’s market with the soft pretzels.”

“There were always some when I went.” Connor says.

Hank smiles at the thought, “Because the owner always set some aside for you. Because he knew you’d always show up for them.”

“Oh.” Connor hums, still savoring every chew. “I never realized… I thought he just picked out the prettiest ones to give me.”

He sees Connor soften with the realization, such a fond smile for kindness he received so long ago.

When they come to the end of the exhibit, it makes Hank so proud to see he doesn’t have trouble leaving. They wander through sculptures while they talk about the past, how Connor gained some of the knowledge he has through many sources. Helping his parents, especially his mother, lending a hand in town where he could, listening to people talk. He was very good at listening to people blabber on while he sipped their expensive drink.

Hank happily listens and tries to draw equivalents in his own life. He’s realized Connor loves to know he’s understood, and it shows how much it helps the conversation. Hank happily listens, until something grabs his attention by the throat.

“Holy shit…”

“Hank?” Connor pats his hand from where they’re looped again, slowing their pace.

“I don’t believe it.” Hank feels a cold spike down his back as he lifts his hand to point at one of the sculptures.

It’s Richard. It’s a fucking bust of Richard Stern.

They both move towards it warily, very much like in a horror movie when the main character sees something so shockingly familiar they realize they’re actually dreaming.

For Hank, it’s… well, it’s fucking wild. He’s been here before, in this very wing. He’s seen this sculpture before and just walked past it. Because before it was a detailed piece of art, of some guy. Now, it’s familiar and real and goddam unnerving because _of course_ it’s Richard. It always has been. But having that knowledge sets Hank’s skin crawling with goosebumps.

Hank reads the plaque, “Self portrait, by Richard Stern. Date unknown. Donated anonymously in 2029.”

“He worked on them again.” Connor breathes, staring up at the unpainted visage of his brother.

Hank has to catch his hand before he can touch the sculpture. He’s pulled close to Hank’s side as they step away, and hears the apology in Hank’s voice, “They won’t let you touch it, Connor. You’re not allowed to touch it.”

“It looks just like him.” Connor says, shaky. “His work improved, do you see it?”

“I thought the paintings took some liberties when they made the two of you look so similar.” Hank answers, a little haunted.

He shakes his head, gesturing with Hank’s hand still around his wrist. “This is him.”

Hank tries to come up with something to say, but honestly, it’s a lot. “Shit.”

“Agreed.” He pulls away from Hank after a thought, rushing to see the other sculptures around. Searching out Richard’s name.

There are two others. One of a woman, captured from a kind smile to just below the bust. The other is a pair of hands holding an open book. With a gut churning realization, Connor pulls off his remaining glove and holds up his hand. The rings on his fingers match, as does the subtle scar across the first knuckle on his left hand. They’re his hands. The piece is titled ‘ _Parlor_ ’.

“Yes, Richard.” he whispers, wiping begrudgingly his watering eyes. “I found your diary in the parlor. I did, I found it.”

“Oh, Connor.” Hank offers himself for comfort, but Connor shakes his head.

“No. I’m fine… I’m fine.” he tries to assure, while doing his best to keep together. It’s one thing to have a moment of vulnerability at home, but another to have one in public. No matter how fucking much he wants to touch the sculptures he thinks he should have access to. “I want to know who gave these to the museum.”

“They’re all anonymous, bud.” Hank tells him, and sounds sorry to say it. “It could’ve been anyone.”

“I don’t like it.” he snaps, but Hank already knows the tone isn’t for him and Connor deflates almost immediately after anyway. He’s getting faster at the stages of grief. “They are beautiful, though.”

Hank gives a small nod, sympathy and understanding all in one. “They are.”

When he reaches to gently brush his fingers over Connor’s knuckles, asking to hold his hand and maybe offer a little stability. Connor takes it. “If I asked to go home, Hank… would it ruin our date?”

“No, Connor, it wouldn’t.” He dips his head to catch Connor’s eye away from the name on the plaque, “I can just as well date you at home.”

Connor knows he’s telling the truth, but he also knows he’s trying to be kind. “Mr. Anderson…”

He steps closer, giving his hand a squeeze. “And at home is where I can kiss you the most. Let me take you home.”

It brings a small smile to Connor’s face. “Incredibly forward.”

They give the sculptures one last look before making their way back to the lobby. Hank’s digging his keys from his pocket and taking Sumo’s leash off his wrist before they hit the exit, “Con? You wanna get Sumo all settled in? I’ll just be a minute.”

Connor eyes the car keys warily, he still doesn’t like the sound the engine makes starting up. But he takes them anyway, and hands over his visitor badge when prompted. “Consider it done.”

Hank watches until they’re out the door and around the corner. He checks them out at the front desk and then puts on his best smile to the secretary, “How much would I have to bribe you for information on anonymous donors and also the caramel recipe in the interactive exhibit?”

The woman gives him an indulgent smile, looking him over for one long moment. Hank tries to turn up the charm, smile with his tongue peeking between the gap in his teeth because he’s learned people think that’s cute. But she ultimately says, “I can’t provide information on anonymous donors, sir. But… maybe other secrets I have some power over.”

Hank leaves with the recipe tucked into his jacket pocket. He feels like he accomplished something, at least.

Connor is waiting in the driver’s seat when he gets to the car, the sun having shifted to bake the passenger side. Hank gives him his coat to shelter under for when he scoots over. “I’d let you drive me home like a proper gentleman, but I know you don’t have a license.”

“Nor do I want one!” Connor slides across the seat with such gusto, the whole display makes Hank laugh.

They head home, and Connor goes upstairs to get himself out of all his layers. He’s slightly stiff from the sun but he’s hoping it’s nothing a good night’s sleep won’t fix. He thinks about Hank’s… intimate offer. Wonders if it would be appropriate to ask.

Hank gets Sumo all taken care of before he puts his hair up and starts in on laundry. He can at least get it going before he forgets for another day. Connor must hear him muttering to himself about it while he stuffs clothes in the washer, because he’s there in the doorway soon enough, clothes in his arms. “Why not discard what you’re wearing here? I have.”

It takes a fucking second after his bland, indecisive grunt to really figure out what’s being said. Then he whips his head up to look at him. “What?”

“Would you like assistance?” Connor’s little head tilt just kinda seals the deal, looking so inviting.

“Connor…” He warns playfully, like he does whenever he can’t figure out if Connor’s bullshitting or not. “You makin' old man jokes again?”

“Not one.” Connor promises with a bit of a smirk. Such a little shit. He drops the clothes in his arms without a care and puts himself in Hank’s space, long fingers coming up to start on the buttons of his shirt, “Alright, perhaps one or two.”

“Fuck you.” Hank chuckles. He slides his hand over Connor’s side, watching the buttons be undone.

“Not tonight,” he murmurs, tipping his head up while he pushes the garment off Hank’s shoulders. He untucks the front of Hank’s undershirt to get at his belt. “But I was hoping to be kissed. And to ask for something… not entirely out of the realm of intimacy.”

“And that is?” Hank feels a little like a fool, letting his pants drop around his ankles while he cups Connor’s cheek in the middle of the drafty laundry room.

He tucks close to Hank’s hand and his own find the hem of Hank’s undershirt. “The offer you made so kindly at the ice cream shop. I must confess, I’m feeling a little worn down by the gaze of the sun.”

“Is that all of it, or are you still poking fun at me?” Hank asks in passing, already ready to say yes.

Connor’s smiles when he brushes their lips, “I promise, that is all.”

“Mm.” Hank bumps their noses when he shifts his gaze down to Connor’s shirt, and his fingers gently pull the front ties open. “I mean…”

“Would you?” Connor leans up into Hank’s hand as it smooths along his collar.

Hank kisses him. Slow and yearning and a show of how gentle Hank really is. “You know by now I’m a sucker for you.”

“Oh, thank goodness.” Connor says. And he kisses Hank back. Absolutely not as slow or as gentle. And really, it’s lovely to see Hank bend to it. Until he learns the navigation of it all and lifts Connor off his feet, depositing him on top of the dryer so he can easier get Connor to stay fucking still.

He still has to change. They still have to eat dinner. It’s also movie night. But Hank is more than happy to push those back if he gets to kiss and massage aloe all over his incredibly attractive roommate for a few hours.

And, he thinks, as Connor pulls the shirt over his head and pets his hair back into place, he could ask to be taken care of too - with Connor’s hands already searching him for sore spots too.

God, they’re such fucking old men.


	13. would you like me to have you now?

Hank really loves Connor’s laugh. All the different variations in it. When something genuinely finds his funny bone. When it’s out of pure surprise. Teasing Hank, indulging mischief, indulging romance, the elated chuckle drunk off Hank’s bloodstream and his slow kisses… and when it’s out of pure joy.

Connor laughs like that now, sloshing water in the porcelain soaking tub while they sing along to the record player propped up outside the bathroom door. Hank’s trimming up his beard at the sink, absolutely head over heels with the easy intimacy of it all.

It’s even better when Connor snorts and reaches a hand out, beckoning Hank closer, “You’ve missed a spot. Bring the razor.”

Hank looks back at him, the old straight razor Connor gifted him still in his hand. “Where?”

Connor gives him a look, dripping water onto the bathroom floor while he holds his hand out. Hank, smitten, comes to kneel at the tub and part with the razor. Those wonderful, long fingers take hold of his chin and tip his head up to expose his neck. Keep him held there. It's got an edge of something enticing.

“Yes, sir.” Hank whispers all cheeky, smirk at the edge of his mouth. Connor puts the flat edge of the razor against his lips, shushing him with a mischievous grin. Hank feels it tingle delightfully down his spine.

Connor settles the blade against the side of his throat, tongue poking out slightly in concentration as he trails over a spot just under Hank’s ear. He then runs his fingertips along the edge of Hank’s beard, making sure it’s uniform and clean.

“How handsome.” Connor says, his index finger underneath Hank’s chin like he’s appraising him. It makes Hank feel _good_. The beauty of Connor's soft, damp skin and lidded eyes catch Hank like a pool of honey.

“You’re mighty handsome yourself, Mr. Stern.” He murmurs. He likes the way Connor lounges in the tub to gain body heat, how happy he looks doing it. It’s a gift when Connor pulls him the small gap for a kiss, and his lips are warm from the hot water.

Once that soft hum vibrates from Connor’s body, Hank gives one back as he presses closer and delights in the way Connor sits up further at the attention. He loves attention. The water is perfumed and milky, all oats and roses and aloe— and Hank slides his hand slippery down Connor’s chest to feel.

Connor laughs so indulgently, delight and hot shivers running through him. Hank's hands are so big, and so capable, and so gentle. He can feel the eagerness in Hank's hands, to touch him anywhere he can just because it'll make them both happy to do it. Hank likes to touch, he's a touchy person, and oh how Connor loves to be under his attention.

It's been so long since he was handled with affection and he can almost hear his old lovers' approving applause that he's not shut himself out of this. He could have easily become one of those he's seen in the movies, hissing at every brush of fingers, slapping away every hand that reaches for him. But then he would've truly been dead.

Now, with Hank's sweet kisses bestowed upon him and his hands firm at the back of his neck and wandering somewhere between hip and thigh, being alive really is a winning option. Not just for the pleasure, no, not for something so simple. But for the way Hank smiles at him when he pulls back to breathe, for his red cheeks and the look in his eyes and the _feelings_ that radiate between the two of them like sonar echoes Connor can almost hear and taste and smell.

Hank believes he can bloom. And he has been right.

That's why he glides his hand up Hank's sun-freckled arm and around his shoulders, and asks him, fully clothed, "Get in with me."

And Hank laughs, a ridiculous little snort and presses his lips to the corner of Connor's mouth, "I've had my bath. That's for you."

"And now it's for you." He echoes words Hank has given him before, said just that right way and Hank softens at the realization.

_It's for you, and so am I._

"Connor…" Hank rests their foreheads together, noses brushing. Connor feels dizzy waiting for the answer.

"Take from me." he whispers Hank's own words again, the memory of where things _shifted_ with them sharp. He's pleading.

Hank looks at him in surprise, and shakes his head. He presses a kiss to Connor's willing mouth as he rises from the floor, "I'd only ever give you more."

With a shudder, he rises to follow. Hank wraps him in a towel and they leave everything as is, clinging to each other while they make the short journey to Hank's room. He can barely wait. All of his senses are tingling up through his ribs, his heart is in his throat and the way Hank leans him up the door frame to kiss him like he also just can't wait makes his cooling body flare with heat.

Hank's curls are mostly dry when he threads his fingers into them, and he's on his tiptoes to not touch the cold floorboards as much as he can. The noise Hank makes when he guides his head back by his hair is inspired. He could craft art for that sound.

Making Hank's body sing will have to be his medium.

He ends up tucked into the springy mattress under Hank's wonderful bulk and warmth, the bath towel really all but forgotten. It's not like he was really covering himself with it, anyway. He worries about his hair getting Hank's pillowcases wet but Hank isn't. He's turning on the space heater nearby, they bought two more, and makes sure it's on him.

"It'll get warmer soon." He promises, voice thick with anticipation. He's fucking thrumming under his skin, and it only adds to it that he knows Connor can hear.

"I'm not worried about the cold." Connor says, gathering him close as if showing him the very answer of why. He kisses Hank like he does whenever he's going to eat, but the numbness never takes, the pleasure doesn't seep through more than the joy of the action itself.

God. Connor kissed him like he was showing him love every time. This whole time.

Hank hangs there a moment in the realization, his whole body and beyond ringing like a bell. Connor's been kissing him like a lover, like someone in love, like someone giving to passion before Hank had even thought touching him at the waist was allowed. Connor's been lighting him up for months now with feelings he thought were past him at this point, and he's still being slapped with how much it is. He's known for a good bit now he's a fool for Connor.

"Don't get lost." He whispers, drawing his hands up Hank's sides and bringing his shirt with it.

"I'm here." Hank croaks, slipping out of the garment with help and shuddering at the hands that map out his torso like he's found treasure over every inch. He squeezes Connor's knee and looks across his body, the legs falling relaxed around his hips. It's a sight and he feels thirty years younger for having laid eyes on it. "God, Connor. The record's still on, I haven't taken my pill…"

"I don't mind." He pulls himself up to sit with Hank, basking in the eager kisses given to him. Hank smells like mint and heat and so alive. When Hank gives him one of those bashful, beautiful, excited smiles… he guides him down onto the mattress careful and full of want. "I wouldn't want to keep from you for a moment to tend to them. I couldn't fathom it."

He slides Hank from his shorts with a lift of hips and care for that one weak knee before blanketing across him, fire everywhere they touch, Hank's groan pressed into his mouth. It's one thing to give to Hank through his teeth, to soothe him and make sure he's alright. It's entirely another to give to Hank through touch, to press down with his hips and his tongue and his hands and _give_.

And oh, how he's wanted this. _This_ has changed. From simply wanting to thank with his teeth, to wanting to steal a kiss, to wanting a night of passion… to wanting to envelop Hank and see him in the morning light. To wake up next to him warm. To hear him moan like he is now, not for Connor's pleasure, but his own. For their own, as a whole.

For all Connor has wanted him to take, Hank always wanted to share. And now he does, too.

When he feels along Hank's skin, he drinks in every sigh and basks in the electricity of their touch. Everywhere his mouth falls for a taste and his hands offer sensation, Hank tries to meet him. When he touches the scars from the surgeries and injuries and regrets across Hank's left side, the words get choked in Hank's mouth the moment he starts following that path with his lips.

And heaven help him if they're even still listening, Hank is so fucking magnificent he could stop Connor's goddamn heart. As it is, it leaps in his chest the way it hasn't in over a hundred years and he shares Hank's kiss like he should have been every moment of every year lost.

It's so wound tight, Hank's hands are shaking when he presses slick over Connor's palm and asks him breathlessly, reverently, to make them feel good.

Connor couldn't deny him anything.

Hank's stomach is jumping with every nudge of pleasure Connor brings, taking his gasps into his lungs while they kiss, and thanking him so sweetly when Hank pulls a blanket around his shivering back in a voice that doesn't give away he's three fingers goddamn deep. And making Hank borderline embarrassed at how much he's happy to wring the pleasure from him this way.

Hank begs him, squeezing those skinny hips in his big hands like he can't spend another second without him just as lost to it all. And Connor presses his lips to Hank's cheek, and murmurs, "Would you like me to have you now?"

"You know what I'm gonna say."

"After this long, I certainly do."

Connor presses in and cradles Hank's face between his hands, and the both of them shiver in unison. Hank's the one to devour Connor's slack mouth this time, to put his hands everywhere and bask in the way Connor seeks out every moment like it'll never be enough.

He hasn't had sex like this in years. He hasn't had someone like this in years. He holds Connor with both arms and his leg wrapped tight, and the two of them press so deeply they create a weighted divot in the memory foam under Hank's back.

Not for a moment does Connor stop to check in, because he's always checking in, he's right in front of Hank's eyes making his ears ring with the most earnest things. He goes red all down his chest listening to Connor's raspy, deep voice croon how good he is, how good he feels, how he shakes him right to his very core. How he makes Connor feel alive again. All breathless, all meant from the heart and all wrapped in that old romanticism Hank's brain shoots off fireworks to.

He comes first, it was inevitable, with tears in his fucking eyes from the intensity. And Connor gives one of those hums right in his ear, the one that says he's happy beyond measure, as it dissolves into a breathless, elated laugh. And Hank laughs too, still in the high, gathering Connor close while he works his hips into it and murmurs everything he's wanted to say but didn't.

About Connor's happiness being brighter than the sun. How he's so beautiful it catches his goddamn heart. The way he smiles, laughs, talks, moves— the way he's making them feel so good it's making Hank stupid in wild ways. How if that's true, he never wants to be smart again.

How he wants to give himself to make Connor warm. How he's brought Hank back to life, too.

And Connor groans so quietly against his mouth when he comes too, holding Hank tighter than he should but feeling those arms squeeze to match, so he's tethered right to the moment. Right to Hank.

Hank whispering how heavenly he looks relaxed in his arms is more powerful than any other single word Connor could ever hear.

That's where he'd like to stay, and Hank wants to keep him. Between them, they breathe the same air, touch with gentle fingers, and the record player down the hall still croons an old love song.

Connor wakes in the morning, before Hank. He's used Hank's phone with a vibrating alarm to aid him. He lays there at Hank's side and watches him, for a long time. Lets his fingers trace the curve of his side and the strong line of his nose, loving the way Hank bats him away mid-snore but seeks him out again before too long.

He can still feel where they touched like after images, keeps looking down like he'll see the ghost of it over the planes of his body. It's a nice feeling. And it's so warm. The space heater at his back and his lover at his front, designed to lull him softer than ever. Hank's blooming a few marks in the shapes of his mouth and fingers. He'll have to be more gentle next time. He kisses what he can see in silent apology, and Hank snorts in his sleep.

When the moon has retired and the sun makes its grand lilac entrance, Connor makes breakfast. Tries his best to recreate the sandwiches they had on their first outing together, and makes up a tray. It would be a disservice to wake Hank, he thinks, when he looks so handsome buried under blankets. So he leaves the tray aside the bed and tucks the sandwiches away in the bread warmer built into the radiator, and crawls his way back to his lover.

Connor is deep asleep when Hank comes to. Buried down into the bed on his stomach, entirely under the sheets. His face is turned towards Hank’s belly, calmly slack while he rests. Hank can’t resist reaching down to run his fingers through Connor’s wild hair. The gentle rise and fall along the curve of Connor's bare back as he breathes is so peaceful. Hank feels languid, content, and it's easy to lay here smoothing his hand along Connor's back and making a map of his freckles within his head.

He wonders how early it is, how much time he has to lounge before Sumo will come to check on him and expect breakfast. But Connor’s shoulder blades shift under his palm and a low, tired grunt vibrates through his body.

“Didn’t mean to wake you.” he whispers as Connor tucks his arms under himself to wiggle up the bed.

“Waking to your touch is a gift.” Connor hums, voice all thick with sleep. He blindly finds Hank’s chest and presses his face against it. There’s a low chuckle and such warm arms hold him close.

“Finding you under the covers is a pretty present, too.” Hank replies, running his hands lazily up and down the entirety of Connor’s spine.

Connor presses an array of kisses over Hank’s chest, loving the sound of his heart. When he scrunches his shoulders up to prepare to move, Hank just starts massaging them with perfect pressure. It makes him feel butterflies. “Hank, would you like breakfast?”

“I always want breakfast.” Hank murmurs, but makes no move to show he wants to get up.

He slowly brings himself up on his knees, rubbing one of his eyes free from the remnants of sleep. Hank looks so handsome, soft from rest. He smooths a few strands of his hair from being tangled and gives a smile, “I prepared a meal.”

“Wh… When?” Hank seems a little more awake with him getting up. “Mm. Still not dressed…”

“Around sunrise.” he answers, and finds himself grinning while he bends to retrieve the sandwiches. He gathers the tray and joins Hank back in the heated paradise of bed.

“Let me get this straight,” Hank begins, expression shifting all tender when he sees the work put in. “You got up while I was sleeping… got dressed, made breakfast _at sunrise_ and then took the extra step to get _undressed_ again.”

“Yes.”

“To be naked in my bed.”

“Yes.” he peels back the tinfoil on Hank’s sandwich and takes one triangle half. “Do you like that, Mr. Anderson?”

Hank’s first flush of the day is exquisite. “Yes…”

“Good.”

Well, being flustered as hell within five minutes of waking up is new. And something Hank thinks very much he can get used to. Connor hands him the half of his sandwich but then endeavors to feed him everything else. Offers him pomegranate jewels and kisses him when he starts complaining about being pampered, hushes him while straddling his thigh and sharing sips of tea. Hank feels like he’s in one of those softer scenes in a period film— there should be piano music while his gorgeously naked lover drapes across his body as they share an easy show of extravagant nature and talk about how the countess is vying for their place at court.

He draws his fingertips down Connor’s chest to stomach, veering over to his hip bone when there’s a smug chuckle at where he was headed. “I’m not that easy so early in the morning.”

“But I know you enjoy the view.” Connor grins, talking mostly into his cup for the way it puffs up warm air onto his face.

“Oh, I’d devour that view,” he admits, wiping over his mouth and beard before leaning up to give Connor a gentle kiss at the hollow of his throat. “And I would… if I hadn’t noticed that you’re not actually eating breakfast.”

“I have my tea. I had a pomegranate aril that fell on your chest.” Connor tips his head back for more attention, petting Hank’s unruly hair into some submission.

He presses his lips just shy of Connor’s scar. “Are you thirsty?”

“Oh. Perhaps just a little.” Connor’s voice goes fond and he tucks his head close to kiss Hank’s hair.

“Hm… just a little, huh?” He tips his head up so their noses brush, “Well, how about you go ahead and take your fill?”

Connor takes him by the cheek for a kiss and they lean slightly when he sets his tea aside. “Would you like it in the same place, still?”

“What does that mean?” He lets Connor lay him back against the headboard. “You’ve always gone for the neck. It’s a real classic.”

“It’s the easiest to keep still.” Connor shrugs, adjusting the blankets to pull them higher at his shoulders. “I have noticed the… tradition it’s become. But I thought you might enjoy a change of pace.”

Connor lays on his stomach. And he eases Hank’s thighs apart. Presses his lips to one inner thigh, tucking in close.

And Hank feels his stomach tighten in anticipation, feels his fucking heart lurch. Connor looks up at him with those big brown eyes, voice all soft like velvet. “Would you be agreeable to this?”

“Ah…” He reaches down to lay his hand over Connor’s on the outside of his thigh, liking the picture this makes way too much. He knows it won’t hurt already, and Connor looks happy to try this way. He brushes a piece of hair from his lover’s forehead, “I’m good. Go on, bud.”

Connor glides a path with his tongue and nuzzles Hank comfortably before he sinks his teeth in. Oh, it’s wild to see something that’s supposed to be damaging just have no pain associated with it. To see Connor bite down and press his face in close to him, and know what’s happening and feel it distantly and simply… feel satisfied.

And then feel the rush as Connor moans and gives back.

His thigh tenses just a little and then immediately relaxes, Connor keeping him nice and settled. At least that’s what the little raise of the eyebrow tells him. Between his shuddering and the pleasure zinging up his spine, lulling him with good waves, he manages to gasp, “Thanks, honey.”

The heavy swoop of pleasure intensifies, then twists on itself. Connor growls low in his throat. For the first time, Hank feels what Connor gives him is almost wholly sexual. Connor makes it burn like arousal and trickle hot in the base of his stomach and the ache is so good it’s got him embarrassingly loud.

Connor’s fingers find his curled in the sheets, eyes dark and smugly satisfied when he peers up. He guides Hank’s hand to his head, to give him something better to hold onto. When his fingers trail up the underside of Hank’s cock, he gets a sob that sounds like his name.

Connor likes that way too much. That’s immediately apparent.

Hank is so fucked.


	14. when you give a vampire an IV

It's a full day. He and Hank spend a good while seeing if they can salvage some of the items around the house more battered by time. The tarnished dining wares, the dinge-ridden fabrics, things with cracks and holes and missing sets. They burn a eucalyptus candle and sit at the kitchen island. When Hank's back starts to act up, they clear the coffee table in the living room and move shop. Seeing Hank's big hands thread a patch onto an old pair of trousers with a little needle is adorable. The glasses at the tip of his nose, the little concentration frown. Sumo tries to help, too. Connor lets him pant on metals that need to be given a shine.

Cole arrives in the afternoon, medical gear in tow. Connor hides. He's… all nerves. Not all at the medical equipment, no, that helps Hank and he's been told it now helps him. He's scared of meeting Hank's son. Will he make a good impression? Will he be acceptable? Will he know what Connor is?

He hides for ten minutes. It takes him twenty to choose what he's going to wear. Cole has been in their home forty-five minutes when Connor gathers the fucking courage to go downstairs and make his entrance. Admittedly, it's not as grand as he'd hoped.

But seeing Hank's face light up when he steps out into the open, like he's the most important thing in the world, really helps. Like the two shirts and Richard's old striped pants are the most magnificent ensemble laid eyes on, and the desperate attempt to look 'modern' in his hairstyle is absolutely nailing it.

"Connor." Hank reaches out for him from his recliner, with the hand not attached to the little tube and bag. Connor can smell the blood, sense the way the bags screw with Hank's scent. He wonders if Sumo notices the change or not, as well.

Cole looks up from fussing with said bag of treats for Connor but smell changers for Hank, surprise written all over him. His eyes flick to his father, and a smile forms.

"I heard the door. I thought I'd come down." He doesn't quite lie. He just doesn't say he was terrified. _Is_ terrified.

"Yeah?" Hank is brighter than the sun and twice as sweet. He squeezes Connor's hand but lets him have room from the equipment. "I'm… Yeah, that's great! Hey, Cole, look here a sec!"

"Pops, I'm already looking." Cole looks a good deal like his father. The eyes, kind and blue, do stand out. "I'm Cole. It's really good to finally meet you, Connor."

"As is meeting you, Cole." He's chastising himself right away for sounding old. He could've just said hi. "Ah, your father's told me quite a lot about you."

Cole groans, tilting his head back in mock frustration. "Oh, man. I hope it's not all bad."

Hank snorts, "Like I ever shut up about how cool my kid is."

"It's quite true!" Connor nods, thankful for the help. "An accomplished medical professional, a hard worker, popular among peers, artistic, athletic…"

"Not to mention the handsomest baby boy!" Hank tacks on, to add to Cole's happily long-suffering grin. Sumo perks his head up, thinking the comment is for him.

"And you know how to swim!" Connor adds, entirely serious, "Very accomplished."

Cole just laughs, pulling off one of his gloves to cover his eyes. "Oh, hell. I didn't expect all that."

"Your father loves you very much." He tells Cole. Because he should be reminded, it's a very incredible thing to have.

"Ah, I know that." Cole leans down to kiss the top of Hank's head, a little embarrassed but ecstatic to know Connor's that close to his dad. "Seems like I've got a game of catch-up on my hands. He waxes poetic about you but I never seem to get much information. You're a mystery, Mr. Connor."

He feels some of the anxiety drain away. He looks to Hank, taking his hand in both of his own now, "Poetic?"

Hank flushes a little pink and huffs, flustered. "Yeah, well, y'know…"

"He says you're good with history, and you're a good gardener." Cole lists off, putting one ear in his stethoscope and settling it just under the neck of Hank's shirt. "You work nights. You chart stars, too? Got an ear for music… Pops, your heart rate up yet?"

"Ah, get the fuck outta here." Hank swats at Cole's hand and gives Connor a slightly embarrassed smile.

It's like a dream, seeing a father and son get along so well. Genuinely well.

He can't stop smiling. "I've been charting what I can see from the backyard… and my mother was the one to teach me music. She played the violin."

"Hey, my friend Nicole plays the violin." Cole brightens.

Oh! That delights him. "Has she heard of Beethoven's ninth?"

Cole nods happily, "Yeah, who hasn't?"

"Wonderful." Connor doesn't know why he thought this would go so badly. It's almost easy. They seamlessly fit in the same room— Cole goes back to checking his work and Connor is free to lean nearer to Hank. Presses a kiss to his hand. "Would you like anything from the kitchen?"

"Juice, maybe." Hank says, then a little more hushed, "You're okay? With all this?"

He eyes the IV bag again. "I wish it was juice."

Hank’s eyes soften and he tilts his head like he wants to touch their foreheads. “There’s some here for you.”

“Spoiling me.” He whispers with a little strike of excitement. He squeezes Hank’s hand before taking a moment for himself in the kitchen. He puts the flashy new kettle on once again for tea, fascinated with the way it boils so fast. He gathers what’s left of the original tea set though, pre-filling cups with sugar to how he and Hank like it. He gets Hank his cup of apple juice, too.

He hears Cole from the other room, “Pop… He’s not what I expected, and exactly what I should have expected.”

“What does _that_ mean?”

“He’s your type.” Cole explains, and Hank sounds flustered.

“Cole, he’s…” A pause, where Hank is probably very aware he could be listening. “He’s really special to me.”

“I can see that.” Cole says, obvious and fond.

He gathers the tea tray and goes back into the living room, kneeling at the coffee table to pour. Hank looks mildly uncomfortable, eyes a little heavy as the transfusion goes to work. He gently touches Hank’s good knee when he gets up and goes to the dryer, stopping the cycle early to take one of his blankets out. It goes straight over Hank, who makes a tender noise at the comfort.

“Hey…” He murmurs as he’s being tucked in, “This is yours.”

“Now, it is yours.” Connor assures. He watches Hank shift, that little pinch of upset being confined even if it’s best for him. With Hank’s tea, he takes a slow sip teeth-first. It’s nice and tempered when he brings it to Hank’s mouth. “There you are.”

Hank looks up at him with those big blue eyes, and Connor gets to see his pupils dilate when the feeling hits. He means it to calm, not to excite, and Hank does look so much more at ease. “Thank you.”

“You’re very special to me, too.” He whispers.

They sit a while, talking about nothing too in depth. Connor pours Cole tea, learning how he enjoys it, too. Sumo spends a lot of time doing laps around them all, checking in with each one of them. Cole mentions how nice it is to see his father sit without fuss, and it isn’t said, but he attributes it to Connor’s presence.

They talk about the house, and how well it’s coming along. Hank talks about wanting to put waterproof curtains on the porch. Connor says he’d like to craft something for the yard. They’re really building a home together. Cole gets his father a snack and tops up his juice before checking his vitals, then looks Connor’s way.

"Connor, I have to ask because I love being nosy. But you're free to tell me to fuck off." He says, settling on the arm of the couch, "As a nurse, asking. Are you… in need of any of this? Are you the one my dad was talking about?"

Connor wonders if he should lie. Hank certainly doesn’t look happy about the questions. But Cole seems genuinely concerned, and it would absolutely smooth the process of getting one of those tempting little bags hanging from Hank’s stand.

“Yes, I am.”

“Do you know your diagnosis?” And oh boy, what a fucking ride the truth would be on a cozy Thursday afternoon.

“Ah.” Connor shrugs, folding his hands in his lap. “Agonies, and hm… bouts of weakness. Uncoordinated sleep, as you well know, of course. Discoloration of the skin and eyes, though not at the moment, entirely. The looming chill, always.”

Cole stares at him, trying to piece that together. He glances to Hank, “Is he bullshitting me?”

“I would never.” Connor answers.

He is, a little.

“The agonies.” Cole repeats, trying not to grin.

“Yes, quite.”

“You know, Connor, you really match the house.”

He smiles, looking around at all the touches of Hank and himself in his old home. “I do now.”

Paired with a smile, Cole gives him a sigh. “Alright. It’s not my business, I get it. And Pops trusts you, and knows your case. But I thought I’d offer to hook you up now anyway, so you’re both getting it out of the way now. So?”

Bells ring off in Connor’s head. He’s not quite sure they’re alarm bells, but… it’s certainly a surprise. He looks at the bag dripping through the tube, now just simple fluids after the iron transfusion finished, because Hank seemed dehydrated. He wonders if Cole would even find a vein. He wonders if having Cole touch him would even be a good idea. He's too cold, death clings to him in some ways Hank has learned to see past. Could he ask the same of another Anderson?

He looks to Hank for help.

"I… don't even know if that's possible." Hank seems just as blown back by the idea.

"You're so dramatic. I've done less legal things." Cole says, "It's not any trouble, Connor."

As Cole gets out the sterile packs of equipment to show him, he feels a little out of his body while he rolls up his sleeve. "I hope it isn't."

He ends up tucked into the couch, arm propped up on a pillow and tempting fate with the only medical professional he's seen in over a hundred years uncapping a needle. Cole must feel his fear as aversion to being touched, because he does the work with strategically less contact.

Hank looks stressed. He radiates stress, off the charts. On the edge of his seat, he just starts blabbering, "Y'know, Cole, maybe he doesn't need it right now. He's a little scared of needles and this is actually terrifying. So, maybe we should wait…"

"Deep breaths please, Pop." Cole doesn't even look at him. He's just focusing on Connor.

Connor is just watching Hank, trying not to be as tense as stone. His heart is pumping like sludge in his ears and he would think to run if his legs didn't feel a hundred miles away from the synapses in his brain. He's fucking floating two inches from being really inside his body and there's a sort of jump right to tired acceptance that he's going to face the music. That something will happen.

Hank just barrels on, verging hysteria caught in his throat, "Cole, you're really not listening. Maybe it's not a great idea! Ah… Am I supposed to be tingling on my left side? Heart's feelin' really weird! Might wanna come here!"

"That's not funny." Cole says.

"I'm not funny when I'm anxious!"

"What are you so anxious about?" Cole finally turns to look at him, and leans to grab some tape from his box, "He's all set."

"What?" The two of them say it in unison.

Connor snaps back into himself, the ringing in his ears gone like being pulled from the edge of sleep. In crisp awareness, he looks down and sees the IV set in his inner elbow. Cole gently tapes it into place and moves away to get his bag ready.

Hank meets his eyes with the same baffled expression.

The one that says neither of them thought the outcome of _something happening_ would be everything actually being fine. That the universe just fucking chilled for once.

The one that says _'oh fuck'_ legitimately and with feeling.

"Oh, fuck." Hank staggers over and seats himself at Connor's side, gingerly taking hold of his arm. They both stare. "I'm surprised it hit anything."

It's a correct, secure IV.

"I wouldn't be surprised if it was all yours." he remarks.

The look on Hank's face is nothing short of absolute absurdity. He's beyond the twilight zone, he's hit like, the sunlight zone. The neon night zone. They're collectively _losing it_.

Cole returns and thanks his father shortly for coming over. He’s cool as a cucumber compared to them. He uses the second prong on Hank's stand to hook Connor up, a little saline first to flush the vein which causes Connor's whole arm to feel vaguely like a reverse faucet, then starts him on a transfusion bag.

Connor watches the color flow through the tube.

He swears he loses all goddamn sense when it reaches his body.

Yeah, no, he absolutely blacks out.

Except when he comes to he's heard every word they've said as Cole makes easy small talk, and intellectually he knows he's moved his body towards Hank's embrace. He's the pilot of a blind ship. Things are moving but not with him, but evidently he's in charge. All he can feel is that point of contact, him and the IV, it's like it drowns and deafens his other senses. Hank talks and he can't hear him. Not until the spread of feeling reaches further across his body again.

"Huh?" He sounds fucking drunk.

"Holy shit, thank god." Hank whispers. He's cradling Connor like he had the first time they ever touched, tucked against his shoulder with their hands clasped. He wonders the picture they make. "I said, are you okay? It sounded like it hurt."

He made noise?

"M'okay." he slurs, weakly trying to lift his head. Hank grabs the edge of his blanket and tucks him in tighter, holding him closer.

"You don't gotta move, I'm right here." Hank coos. He's so easy to adore, Hank is. Connor wants to tell him, wishes to whisper it in his ear and take his mouth in a kiss, but he doesn't have the coordination for that at the moment. "I have you."

He's a little mad at the universe that he can't kiss Hank right now. He feels it in his bones, the love. "You have me."

"I do." Hank promises, caressing his cool cheek. Connor tries, he tries, to lean up closer. He guides him back towards the crook of his neck, "Shh. Careful, now. Watch those teeth."

He was barely aware he had his teeth sharp. He lets himself rest against Hank's body, feeling his shape and the rise and fall of his chest. He matches his breathing without meaning to. He’s floating but not _away_. Cole brings him his tea and Hank holds it for him, has him sip. He does more for the encouraging words than anything else.

Hank’s disconnected first, all of his care done with. He doesn’t move from the couch though, the two of them wrapped up in each other. Cole tries to be as non invasive as possible when he checks on Connor.

At one point it creeps in on Connor, a feeling he’s lost for a very long time. It saps the energy right out of him. He has a hard time remembering. But he pushes weakly at his blankets and groans, eyes never even opening, “Hank… I’m hot.”

“What?” Hank’s never seen him act like this, either. The burn from the _sun_ overheats him from the outside, in. When that happens, Connor starts sheltering himself, not uncovering.

Connor hasn’t felt warm to the core in a very long time.

“It’s warm in here. It’s sweltering… Hank,” he fumbles with the buttons on his shirt, sighing in relief when Hank starts getting them open. “Is it the sun? Is the window broken? Am I safe?”

“You’re safe, the windows are fine.” Hank assures in his own panic, smoothing his fingers over Connor’s skin as he makes sure the shirt stays open. He’s… not cold. Not as cold as he was, anyway. Hank has gotten so used to touching Connor and knowing it’ll be a contrast, he almost doesn’t feel real. He runs his palm over Connor’s forehead, “You’re just warm.”

“Wow.” Connor whispers, dazed. He looks halfway delirious, but gives Hank the hint of a smile. He looks tired as all hell, darkness around his closed eyes, sweat beading at his temple. “Will you keep touching me? Is that scandalous to ask?”

“Not at this point.” Hank tells him, affection dripping from every word. He lets Connor lay against his chest with the blankets around his ankles, and glides patterns across the available skin. “You’re doing great.”

“He’s halfway there.” Cole says, and it sounds so distant to Connor’s ears.

He doesn’t remember falling asleep. He doesn’t remember when it takes him, only that he has a dream. Walking through the halls of his home, he hears the sound of his mother’s violin rooms and rooms away. He gets to the observatory, smoke-filled and the violin merges with the record playing in the corner.

He doesn’t have a thought for stepping into the sunlight through the glass ceiling. He thought Hank had covered it with the film. Where is the film?

“There you are.” It’s a voice he’s wished to hear for forever and a day.

“Richard?”

Richard puts out his cigarette and smiles, beckoning him closer where he sits at a card table. There’s a space set out for Connor. The smoke shifts as he nears, and in the third chair, Hank is there. He looks beautiful, sliding a glass of wine across the table.

“We thought you’d slept in.” Hank says, and Connor can easily lean to kiss him.

“I always do.” he answers, because he always does.

“Not always.” Richard reminds him, as he sits with them. The chair is soft and warm and he can vaguely smell honey tea. “You wake when there’s reason to, brother.”

“I missed you.” he says, feeling in a way that he must say it. Because it’s been a long time since he sat with his brother in the sun. And even if that’s changed, he’ll appreciate this for what it is.

Richard smiles, that soft one Connor always favored. “You still do.”

“When do you think father will be home?” He doesn’t mean for that to be the thing he says, but it comes out anyway.

“He’s not coming home.” Hank tells him, appraising his cards. No one has set any down, they blend into the table like paint. He doesn’t try to pick them up. He hears piano, echoing in the big hall where the viscount kept it. He always played so beautifully. Can he smell perfume? Hank looks at him, eyes like the sun across summer oceans, “But you are.”

“You can.” Richard says, hands sticky with clay. “You can go home.”

“Wouldn’t that be wonderful?” he whispers, looking up at the blue sky. The moon above, the little men and their ship. They wave to him. He doesn’t get to wave back.

“In your own time.” Richard assures when he makes no move to leave.

When he does leave, he doesn’t remember closing his eyes.

He’s on his favorite couch in the living room when he fully pulls himself from the depths of sleep. Sumo is the first thing he sees, head resting on the edge, watching Connor with all the diligence a loving dog does.

“Good boy.” he whispers, watching those ears perk up. Next to them, the couch shifts.

“Connor?” Hank’s hand finds his hip. Ah, there’s a sheet over him instead of a blanket. Hank sounds groggy, “Hey, bud. How’s it goin’?”

“I’m okay.” He slowly sits himself up on an elbow, feeling a small rush in his head. “Where’s your son?”

“Honey, he left hours ago.” Hank helps pull him into a sitting position. “It’s a little after ten at night. You slept for a long time.”

“You should be in bed, Hank.”

“I didn’t want to leave you alone.”

Hank says it like it's the easiest thing in the world.

Connor takes his hand just to kiss his knuckles, to see the way Hank flushes over it. “Thank you.”

“How do you feel?” Because Hank has to know. Connor was full of weird reactions and he doesn’t know if any of them were good or bad. He’s been on the fence about the experience for hours.

Connor takes a moment to answer. He takes stock. He’s a tad bit dizzy, but he thinks after so long of having so little coursing through his veins, maybe that’s normal. He doesn’t feel too different now, he’s not hot anymore. He feels… “Full.”

Hank squints at him, “Full?”

“A bit like when you’ve had meals too close together. Also, hm… that feeling when you’ve cried too much. And your face feels stoppered. Even though you’re empty of tears.” He tries to explain it, but he doesn’t think there’s really a full translation.

Hank sighs and rubs his tired eyes, "I won't say I understand it, but as long as you're good, Connor…"

"I am." He promises, pulling himself from the couch. He allows himself a moment to make sure he's stable before offering his hands to Hank, "Come now, to bed."

"Yes, sir." Hank gives in, letting Connor help in pulling him up.

"Perhaps you could continue calling me that," he leads Hank up the stairs, giving his hand a squeeze, "It makes me want you in a very specific way."

"I like specifics." Hank humors him. There's no way he can do _anything_ tonight, but he's always open to hearing ideas.

"In the morning, I would have you for breakfast." Connor whispers, waiting at the top step like a price awaiting their lover. Hank walks right into him, weaving his arms around him.

He lays a soft kiss against Connor's neck, "Hm. Like the sexy _have you_ or I'm actually being used as breakfast?"

"Would you complain with either?"

"Ah… no, _sir_."

Connor fights a big, dopey smile. Hank starts walking them along the hallway and he steers to avoid the pictures on the wall, "Mm, you'd get both if I wasn't full."

Hank snorts against his shoulder.

He tucks Hank into bed, leaving his window cracked for a nice nightly breeze. Hank doesn't want him to go, so he settles beside him, adoring the way Hank uses his shoulder as a pillow. Sumo jumps up and cages Hank in on the other side, and Connor feels… home.

He stays awake, as he sometimes does. He looks at things on Hank's phone and tries his hand at earning a few gems in Hank's cat shelter game, to surprise him. He earns four. Very valuable, all diamond, though they always seem to be diamonds… He knew someone who adorned their feline with diamonds. It was something.

When Hank turns enough to not need him, he quietly slips away. Gathers himself in one of Hank's sweaters and pads the halls.

He looks inside his parents' room. Just in the doorway. Wonders what he can make of it. Wonders what happened to his mother's rose bushes around the property. Wonders… what if he had gotten along with his father as Cole does with Hank?

Would he even be here, with Hank now? He doesn't think so. He thinks, for a wild moment, of taking his parents' pain as he did his brother's. His mother's headaches, his father's quick temper. How well would they have lived together, with Connor being what he is, if…

If.

If they were different people.

Would he and Richard have even gotten along as well, if they had an abundance of parental love, if they hadn't had to band together against their father's disdain for children and their mother's firm nature? Amanda had never been that harsh to him. Yet she aided his father, his aunt and uncle, to put him in that prison. And she cried. He remembers it through his own tears. Why cry for him when no one was watching?

He finds himself in Richard's room. Because of course he does. After all the events of today, he needs to further exhaust himself. He hates it. He hates the drawn curtains, Richard would always draw them when Connor would visit. It’s like the room is waiting. He hates the bed, with the little stain on the sheet where they'd eaten blood oranges as children. He hates the paints left out as if they think they're going to be used. And he hates the fucking mirror that excludes him.

He wonders where his brother went. Wonders his fate when he doesn't want to think of it the most. He wonders about them all, leaving this house so large, so empty.

His trousers still sit on the bed. He hasn't touched anything visible in the room, except his favorite shirt the first time in. He takes from Richard's closet, because it's closed. Looks in his vanity drawers, sees the decades old pomade and the cigarettes. He’ll touch them because it feels almost okay to, it can’t tarnish the look of the room.

It's an old habit. One Hank says has almost been eradicated from society. Connor comes from a time where you were chastised if you didn't smoke, and picked it up to better fit in when he wined and dined richer folks than him. Hank comes from a world where you're chastised and excluded if you do. Because they can harm and kill you.

Connor lights a cigarette with the old matches alongside. He's already dead, yes? And it's just because he wonders about the past. Perhaps a holdover from his dream, the craving. Just to sit in the smoke.

He sits on Richard's bed and stares at his trousers. They were his most comfortable pair, he simply liked them better. So, what? Did Richard want something to remember him by? Did he want them for himself? Did their laundry staff give them to Richard, knowing Connor wouldn't have use of them? He feels the anxiety crawl up his throat. But he kicks them off the bed anyway. They'll never be exactly how they were ever again. Good riddance.

What surprises him though, is the clatter of paper that falls along with them. He peers over the side. Two yellowed envelopes.

Unfamiliar.

His heart leaps in his throat.

Just avoiding toppling over onto the floor, he retrieves the envelopes. One is long, with an unsealed block edge. The other is a standard letter envelope, not only pressed shut but held by their family seal. The red rose in the wax flashes him back to when mother got them made.

He slips his fingers into the open envelope first. Old, thick paper. Connor would notice them anywhere. They're train tickets, two of them. Unused, as well.

And not round-trip.

They're for passage out of Detroit. For two seats side by side, departing at midnight— three months after Connor was gone.

He doesn't know what to think of them. He sets them aside like a live hand grenade and sadly pulls at the seal on the other envelope. It weighs heavy in his hand, and it's apparent why when before he can dip in for the slip of paper, an old key slides out past his hand and onto the bedspread. He's immediately frustrated with himself that he didn't catch it.

It's a flat key, luckily not silver, and it's engraved with the advertisement of an old key maker. The slip inside reads, 'Box No. 901. Customer Key. Sanders' Bank. Detroit, MI. Since 1883'

There's a scrawled note below, 'Whomever possesses this card and accompanying key is entitled to the contents held within the box.'

Signed, Richard Stern.

Cosigned, William Sanders, AVP.

Connor blows out a long trail of smoke, and his voice echoes in the dead of night. " _Fuck._ "


	15. box 901

Hank wakes up with Connor at the edge of his bed. He looks worried, Hank knows the haunted look in his eye well by now. He rolls over and sighs, pushing his hand through his hair. “Hm. No breakfast, then?”

Connor gives a sad smile, “It was a rough night.”

“Oh, Connor.” He stretches and they both listen to his back do a satisfying symphony of cracks. His hand settles on Connor’s knee and he moves closer, to offer himself up to touch. Like a charm, Connor’s fingers thread into his hair. “Tell me all about it.”

He does. He tells Hank about his discovery, about his thoughts and how nice it was to see Cole. About how he thinks Hank is a very good father. He gathers the envelopes off the bedside table and shows them in detail, and finally says he wants to go to Sanders’ Bank.

“Ah, hell.” Hank’s rolled over onto his back, squinting at the key. “Sanders’ Bank doesn’t exist anymore… They merged into the Bank of Detroit, god, over twenty years ago. Had to help my mom change her accounts.”

Connor’s face falls, as well as his heart to his damn feet. “Of course…”

“Hey, hey.” Hank reaches up to rub his cheek, “We can still go. They don’t just get rid of old boxes, right? We’ll talk to someone. We have all the shit, and a note! They’d have to at least listen.”

“Would they?” Connor mopes, tilting his head into Hank’s hand.

“Sometimes people listen when I talk.” Hank reasons, giving a reassuring grin.

“I know you leave me speechless at regular intervals.” He whispers, mood lifting just a bit when he sees Hank get all bashful.

"And that angelic voice of yours just captivates all ears and hearts." Hank manages to say without flustered fumbling.

"Oh, Mr. Anderson…"

“Ah, jeez. Just let me up.”

Hank throws himself into some clothes and takes care of Sumo while Connor gets into all his layers. He skips breakfast, which both of his companions notice. Sumo really doesn't like that, but is only fussy over it for a few minutes.

The weather is kind of terrible for Connor today. Nice and sunny, not a lot of clouds. But he doesn't complain and Hank doesn't think he could persuade Connor to stay home.

Hank takes them to the bank.

There's a few people inside this morning, getting in their early appointments and withdrawing money for the weekend. They step up to the next available window and Hank takes the lead while Connor is still taking in the space with mild discomfort. There's an elderly woman staring at him. Hank understands the upset pinch in his lover's brow.

"Morning. We were hoping to speak to an agent about old safety deposit boxes, before the branch merge a handful of years ago." Hank gently dumps the information.

The teller gives him a polite and bit of an apologetic smile, "We can't give personal information on boxes before the merge unless it's one owned by you, or you had valid documentation. But we can open one for either of you today, if that's something you'd like."

"We have documentation." Hank assures and steps aside for Connor to slide the envelope across the counter.

"Please, be careful. It's very old." he says. The teller gives an attentive nod before they take the cardstock and key from the envelope. They read it through and their face blanches with surprise.

"I'll get the branch manager. Please wait here."

Hank and Connor share a look.

"I don't like that they took it with them." Connor admits. His hands begin to fidget and Sumo presses his head into Connor's palms to calm any panic before it starts.

Hank gives his arm a squeeze, trying to see where the teller disappears to, "We'll get it back whether or not they'll help us."

It takes more than twenty minutes. Connor's anxiety mounts the longer they wait, hoping and wishing someone would give answers. This is a real link to his past, to his brother, and while he knows he can't tell anyone that… he wishes he could make them understand how much it means to him.

It's much more than just a box in a bank.

Sumo pressures them over to the coffee maker, wanting to see his people have some kind of sustenance. Hank sucks down coffee without really thinking about it, halfway burning his tongue. Sumo pushes for attention until Hank finds the granola bar in the side pocket on his vest. He has to take a moment to praise Sumo for his good work.

Connor doesn't eat, or drink, or really move too much. He stiffens up and keeps his eyes open for anything. Hank tries to soothe him, dips under his baseball cap to kiss his cheekbone, "It's gonna be okay."

"I feel as though I could vomit." Connor whispers, just barely moving into Hank's embrace.

"Remember you're in charge here." Hank squeezes his bicep through all those layers, "Richard's note entitles _you_ to the box, or at least information on where it went. That is _yours_ , here and now, not whenever ago."

Hank is right. Connor wishes he could show how grateful he is for those words right now, if he wasn't so rigid submerged in his own feelings.

The manager comes out from the back with Connor's slip and key. She's an older woman, all business, beckoning them back into an office. "This is quite the surprise to see. Most of the safety deposit boxes from that era were claimed or closed out, and this note…"

Connor sits when Hank prompts him, so he's not looming like a statue. "It's authentic."

"Oh, I don't doubt that, Mr…"

"Then perhaps you can tell me why we waited as long as we have." Connor pushes on. He doesn't want to make up a name, doesn't want to lie being a descendant if he uses his own.

She seems fine with his outburst, even sorry. "I do apologize for the wait. We… honestly, we were all a little shocked. William Sanders was of the bank's founding family and the Accounts Vice President here many years ago, his photo is on the wall out front. Some of us were surprised to see his signature… and the document itself, it's incredibly old."

"I see." Connor takes in the information quickly, as he always could. "Mr. Sanders' signature lends a level of credibility to the document."

"Yes, and that's probably why he signed it, with this Mr. Stern. We usually require more to give access to safety deposit boxes if you're not the person it belongs to." She explains, still inspecting the key with a certain type of awe.

"I can provide any ID you need." Hank pipes up, already leaning to secure his wallet.

"Whatever is in that box belongs to me." Connor tells her, hoping his voice doesn't waver.

She raises a hand to pause them both, "According to the document, that is correct. I will need some forms filled out for record keeping purposes, but the document is not in dispute."

Connor's shoulders sag, "So…?"

"We do have the box."

Connor feels the weight of the world lift just a little bit.

Hank lets out a relieved sigh, "Thank god."

"We ran it through in the system, and it's being brought up now." she explains, sliding the key and document across the desk before standing, "I can take you to a room where you can open it."

Connor is relieved to place Richard's old things back in the envelope. He holds Hank's hand through the maze of hallways. He's happy for the chairs in the very chrome with one fake plant styled room. Because he's feeling exhausted already. And when they bring the box in, it's ancient and a little scuffed but built to survive. It's set down with a heavy metallic thump and Hank watches Connor stall completely at the sight of it.

But before he can reach out to offer to help Connor through, Connor is dragging the box close and all but racing to unlock it. The little click as the key actually works causes Connor to give a soft gasp, and the clang of the top when it flips open echoes in the quiet room.

“Oh, my.” Connor whispers, tracing the edges of the box with careful fingers. There’s quite a few things inside.

Everything goes on the table, spread out in that methodical way Connor does, to be looked over soon. There’s a couple of crumpled envelopes on top and then there’s a swath of folded fabric. It feels like things are nestled inside, so Connor is ever more careful setting it down. Two velvet bags, a wooden cigar box, a maroon velvet box with brass clasps, and a paper bag…

Hank gently sets the empty safety deposit box aside, whistling at the haul. “Damn, Connor. He left this stuff for you?”

“He must have. This is mine.” Connor runs his fingers over the fabric, black with a hint of an intricate blue design under the fold. “He had the shawl made for me after… you know.”

He smooths his hand across his lover’s shoulder blades, “Where do you wanna start?”

With a sigh, Connor looks over all the history. He wonders how he’ll deal with it. “Help me with all of this, if you would.”

Hank looks at him with quiet surprise. The fact that Connor trusts him to even touch any of this stuff means a lot. He scoots in his chair and brings the envelopes close, looking them over for any writing before he opens one up. “Fuck…”

It’s full of cash. Old bills. A bunch of ones, fives, a few twenties and fifties. Connor peers over while he’s unfolding his shawl, “Ah, to have money again. How lovely.”

Hank lets out a little snort and doesn’t have the heart to say these bills probably haven’t been valid in circulation for a long time. The other envelope has even more fucking money, fifties and hundreds in the mix, and a little booklet that Connor says is his passport.

The shawl has two miniature bottles of alcohol nestled within, as well as a pearl necklace. Connor shows him the bottles, a blackberry brandy and a herbal liqueur. “Vaguely familiar. Valuable… I wonder if they're meant for enjoyment.”

The cigar box, surprise, has four expensive cigars inside. There’s room for a fifth but it’s empty. Hank creaks open the velvet box and shakes his head immediately upon seeing a ruby encrusted necklace. They both pour through it; two pocket watches, a handful of rings - a few of which Connor drops back into the box with a light hiss. Real silver, then. Hank assumes the gold and platinum are real, too. Another necklace, a small array of tie pins and brooches and pendants… Hank stops thinking about much even one of these pieces would’ve run for back then.

Hank’s still looking it over when Connor inspects the contents of the two velvet bags. One is filled with pocket change— coins. The other…

“Holy fucking shit, Connor. Are those _diamonds_?”

They sparkle and catch in the light as they tumble into Connor’s hand, like some kind of goddamn heist movie. As Connor shakes them out, a few blues and greens glint amongst the rest. “And… a choice few sapphires, emeralds…”

“Connor, what the fuck was he doing giving you all that?” Hank asks in crystal clear astonishment.

Thank god, even Connor looks a little like a deer in the headlights about this. “What about the question of where he even acquired them all?”

“Well?”

“You assume I know?”

Connor shifts his palm, the gems glitter.

“You _were_ the closest person to him.”

“Yes, but I didn’t oversee his finances… If I did, I wouldn’t have let him buy those gaudy gold-laced boots…”

“Connor!”

He takes Hank’s hand and drops some of the diamonds into it like they’re a share bag of M&Ms. “Here. To start repaying you for all you’ve spent on me.”

Hank’s stiff as a fucking board in fear of any of these little things tumbling away. “No. Absolutely not.”

When Connor gets to the paper bag, he realizes he’s internalizing a lot. He’s not entirely in the right frame of mind, he’s itemizing the personal effects and compartmentalizing his feelings about them. He realizes even more, while looking into the paper bag and finding a simple bundle of English and French currency, he wishes it was answers.

As over the moon grateful he is about all of this, about finally having funds again and pieces of the past… he wishes they were another diary. Or at least some explanation.

“This is insurance.” He says, quietly.

“More on that, bud?” Hank prompts, as he _incredibly_ fucking carefully puts the diamonds back into the dainty little bag.

“These are things… however acquired, they’re things removed from our family’s accounts. Besides the beauty, Hank, why did women ask their husbands and fathers for gifts of expensive jewelry again and again?”

Hank doesn’t like the way that sounds. “Connor, that’s a little… uh—”

“ _Old_ , yes. But I’m making a point, because that is how the world worked when I was—” Alive. Real. He doesn’t mean to snap. “They did so because they weren’t allowed to govern their own accounts. My mother ran nearly _everything_ , but she had to do so using my father’s name and playing dumb when it kept her safe.”

“I’m sorry. I get it.” Hank sighs.

“This isn’t sentiment. These aren’t gifts from my brother. They’re insured survival separated from my family.” He huffs, feeling bratty he has so much but is upset that there isn’t exactly what he wants, “Not even a letter…”

It surprises him, after his being harsh, that Hank reaches out to comfort him. To draw his hand up and down his back and look like he understands. “You wish they were more letters.”

“If not for the fact of it being a way to return your kindness, yes, I would wish them letters.” he whispers, fiddling with the tassle end of his old shawl.

“You can wish they were letters anyway, Connor.” Hank’s strong hands pull him in and kiss his temple, “And you don’t need to return anything to me… you’ve given me so much more.”

The thing is, Connor wants to give him everything and then some. If he’d had Hank way back when, he would be covered in expertly tailored clothes, the latest fashion from Paris, and dripping in shiny, expensive things. And still have Connor’s whole heart to steal away with whenever he pleased.

“At least I can buy _you_ ice cream now.” he manages to say.

Hank snorts, hand hot over his shoulder blade. “For breakfast?”

“Whatever you want.” he promises, and means it.

“We can get you some current currency,” Hank gives him a knowing smile, “Then we can go home.”

Oh, Hank knows how much he loves just going home. Even if it's with disappointment heavy in his heart. With more questions and less answers. Hank looks at him as though he can see the gears turning in his head like some kind of automaton.

"Maybe… there are other records, than just from Richard himself?" he ventures, sounding hollow in his hope.

Hank offers his hand. It's taken. "Now, there's an idea. If you're ready?"

"I'd like to be."


	16. muddy history

Hank leads the way into the city’s local archives like he’s a knight clearing the way for a prince he’s dearly devoted. Every so often he feels Connor’s hand brush his wrist as if reminding himself Hank is still there beside him.

They go through the entrance and are directed downstairs. Downstairs is just as Hank would expect; a cool concrete set of stairs that opens up into a long basement room, rows of shelves, and one reception desk. The young man at the desk is squinting through a magnifying glass at an old document, repeatedly pushing hair falling out of his bun away from his face. He looks a little startled to have visitors, but a bright smile hops forward immediately. “Good afternoon!”

Hank gives a smile and leans against the high desk. "Hey, there. I was hoping to get some info on an old family that used to live in the area?"

The sleek holo name tag says ‘Beau W., Junior Archivist’. "Oh, of course. Anything in particular? A certain year, or…?"

"Don't have a year, but it's the uh… the Stern family?"

Beau pauses a moment before he starts typing into the computer, "The Sterns? That's… really old school."

"Does that make it harder to find anything?" Hank asks, hoping there's at least scraps. He doesn't want Connor leaving empty handed on another hopeful info search.

"No, no… We have some things on the Sterns." Beau says, before disappearing behind some shelves. It takes him a second to come back, but he does with a few boxes in tow. "A lot of the information has been ported to computers, obviously, but here's a few relics."

The boxes are set on a bench beside Beau, and he starts spreading old documents and trinkets onto the workspace. Old shipping manifests, a few pieces of mail, announcements of the marriage between Connor's parents. A velvet box that holds a fragile family crest. A lone glove that belonged to Connor's father, of which Connor has the mate to, back at home. A few heavily aged photos; Connor's grandparents, Grandfather Stern and Connor's father in front of the shipping company, Connor's mother in a gorgeous dress and pearls, and— surprisingly, a baby photo.

Connor holds them like he might set them aflame with his touch.

The archivist smiles at them, "Do you know about their significance to business in the area? It was influential and essentially—"

"I know about the company. I'm wondering more about the family." Hank tries to interrupt politely. This kid seems excited to have someone to talk to, but he wants the right information.

"Oh! Well, the family that lived here in Detroit consisted of Cornelius Stern, here, and his wife Estelle, also here," he taps Connor's grandparents in the photo. "Then came Bartholomew, their son."

Connor's father.

"Though they took their friends' children under their wing like family, he was the only child they managed to have. He had two sons, with an unknown woman. It was rumored she was already married, and abandoned the children with Mr. Stern immediately after the second son had been born." The archivist directs them to the baby photo. 

When Hank flips it over, faded cursive reads 'Connor Stern, aged one year and one month'. It hits Hank square in the heart. "Cute kid."

"The eldest. Connor." Beau explains. "Mr. Stern soon met a woman named Amanda, who took to the children immediately. She couldn't have children, in fact she had just lost one when she met the Sterns. She even nursed the newborn as if he were her own."

"Richard." Connor says, voice like an echo.

"Yes! Eventually, the two married and the children were raised by Amanda while Bart oversaw the company."

Connor snorts lightly at that. His thumb runs over the old photo of his mother with fondness and a sense of confusion. Hank resists the urge to reach out for him.

"And what about after that? The kids?" Hank prompts. Beau practically lights up.

"There's a good bit! The family became more and more influential off the success of Bartholomew's late father. The business grew— we still use it in a sense, even today. Amanda was skilled in the violin, many people enjoyed her at parties. She was evidently very disciplined."

Connor subtly nods, making a funny face.

"Bart enjoyed cigars and wine, tried a little side business there if history's right." Beau rambles on, "The eldest child, Connor, took to being a socialite when old enough. Parties, travel, the like. He was… rowdy, extravagant, much to his parents' dismay. A notable scandal was he impregnated a governor's daughter—"

Hank side-eyes Connor wildly.

"It was proven false, when it came out he'd been chasing a romance with the governor's son instead. That caused a ruckus."

Connor bites down on his lip and busies himself looking at an old shipping manifest like he has any interest in it. "A _romance_?"

"It was documented he made many loyal friends, was loved and a bit coveted by others. It was said he enjoyed the peonies that he grew at their family home and had an interest in the sciences. Evidently he had a wonderful singing voice as well. He was slated to take over the family company before his untimely death."

Connor stiffens.

"Ah… what did they say happened?" Hank feels obligated to ask while wishing he didn't have to.

"It was said he took ill in the winter, after getting lost in the woods near the family home. He returned safely, but evidently couldn't shake it, and pneumonia set in. It took him in the night, there's… ah, there's a report somewhere." Beau digs around in another box and produces it. Connor snatches it out of the air. "The family was devastated, he'd been young and healthy all his life."

Hank's hand slides onto Connor's back. He's like a line of tension. "What about the other son?"

Beau smiles now, "Richard Stern. It was said he had a quiet disposition and was a little more reserved. Some people thought it was from being abandoned so soon after his birth. But who knows, really? Maybe he was just quiet."

Connor's shoulders droop. Hank almost misses him whispering, "Quiet, thoughtful, smart…"

"He had talent for the arts. He painted, sculpted, even did woodwork." He dips under the workspace and produces a small wooden figurine, a little sailing boat. "That's an original… Some of his sculptures survived, they're at the local history museum. When he wasn't glued to a project, he was glued to his brother. Connor took him to parties, overseas into Europe. It's rumored he learned piano from a baron while on one of those trips."

"Viscount." Connor murmurs, staring at the little wooden boat. Hank picks it up and places it in his hand.

"I think his brother helped him come out of his shell. After Connor's death, it seemed he couldn't get back _into_ his shell."

"What does that mean?" Hank almost snaps, offended on Richard's behalf as if he knows him personally. By now, he kind of feels like he does.

"At Connor's funeral, everyone wore black except for Richard. He was adorned with bright blues and purples, more dressed for a party than the death of his brother. It's said a woman fainted, from the rampant disrespect! He didn't cry, or mourn, or even stay in the designated area for family. He comforted the eldest Stern's many friends, and even stood with the staff of the house for a time."

Connor puts the boat down in favor of grabbing for Hank's hand. He remembers Richard's letter, ' ** _It seems I will have to misbehave…_** '

Beau is on a roll, barreling through the story with passion. "From eyewitness accounts, as the funeral dispersed - Bartholomew and Richard had an argument that came to blows. If it's to be believed, Richard Stern shoved his father right into the fresh grave of his own brother, and said— Now, _this_ , this is so ominous. He allegedly said 'I won't forget what you did to him'."

Connor's breath stutters in his chest.

"And this sparked scandalous rumors left and right! From their father being the reason Connor was lost in the woods that night, running away after some altercation. With the talk of Connor’s reputation as a huge playboy that was very loud about his sexuality, and how that obviously didn't fit well in his father's image, it's plausible— To Mr. Stern having had a direct hand in the death of his son. Some people believed it. Richard obviously did."

"What became of those rumors?" Hank asks, absolutely blown the fuck away. Knowing the truth really puts everything into stunning disbelief.

Beau sighs, "Oh, not much. The Sterns were rich, which, y'know."

"Yeah, meaning if they did kill him, they got away with it." Hank grimaces. That's what happened. "What about Richard?"

"There's not much more in the records. It seems he went off the radar for a time. He inherited the family company in the end, and then immediately the records changed. Must have sold it out and settled down somewhere."

"Do you think he had a long life?" Connor asks suddenly, in a hushed voice.

Beau looks Connor over for a moment, the spell broken on his excited babbling. He shrugs, but says, "I hope he did. He seemed… kind."

Connor squeezes Hank's hand. Hard. Hank gives Beau a polite smile, "Hey, thanks for taking the time to tell us about all this—"

Beau looks overjoyed, "Of course! Hey, why'd you come asking? Just curious… thought I was the only person who loved this stuff."

"Ah, I'm a retired cop. Worked at the DPD. Rumors of alleged murder in local history, it just kinda… captured my mind, y'know?" Hank offers lamely.

"Oh! I know! Any time you want another lesson, I'll be here." Beau tells them, chipper as ever.

Hank nods and tries to get Connor out as fast as he can without seeming rude.

"They were tulips." Connor says, barely holding it together and taking one last look before the archivist puts everything away. "The eldest brother favored tulips, not peonies."

Hank gets them as far as the alley outside the building before Connor is yelling, "Pneumonia! The lies!"

"I know, Connor. I know…" Hank tries to soothe, but he sees the rage there in the line of Connor's shoulders, in the way he paces and clenches his fists.

"'It took him in the night'! Like I'm some kind of glass-spun babe that shattered at the chill of the wind!" Connor roils, a certain old and withheld hysteria there at the injustice. "'Untimely death' and the forged medical report! Revolting! The _funeral_ , they _wept_ …!"

"Not Richard." Hank says.

All at once, Connor stops. It’s like the fact cuts through the chaos in his head. Hank knows his eyes light up behind the shades. "He…! I can barely believe it! _Pushing_ our father onto my empty grave and exclaiming he would not forget… Misbehavior at the highest degree, and the greatest poetic showmanship I've ever wished I could have seen."

"I would've liked to see it, too. Something to clap for." Hank agrees, seeing Connor so alight with information.

"And Hank," He's fully fidgeting now, shifting foot to foot, "That young man said Richard had inherited the business. Which means he _lived_. He outlived our parents, and had a life."

Hank takes Connor by the hands, gently rubbing his reddening fingertips, "He did. Probably grew old, retired somewhere nice."

Connor lets Hank slip him back into his gloves, "But I wonder why he never came for me."

It's not even sad. Connor just sounds confused.

Hank presses a kiss to his covered knuckles, "I don't know, bud."

"He got the company… he must have gotten the house as well? He wouldn't forget about me."

"No." Hank says firmly, pulling Connor into a hug, "No, he wouldn't have."

What happened to Richard, neither of them know. But he never did come for Connor, even though he promised he would. It makes Hank wonder why the house was even up for auction, if Richard supposedly was meant to get it when their parents died. There's not enough records to tell.

"Hank." Connor whispers into the crook of his neck, "Where is the cemetery?"

Hank feels a little sick thinking about it. But he stows it away and says instead, "Do you want me to take you?"

The short nod is enough.

Hank drives them to the cemetery.

Asking directions from a groundskeeper Hank hails down, they find Connor's empty grave in a sectioned off part of the yard, adorned with scary as shit looking fences. All sharp and thorned metal like rose stems. Connor's headstone has silver inlay.

"How disgusting." he remarks. They both don't fail to notice the flowers laid on the ground. Orange tulips. A bronze rose on Amanda's headstone, which Connor looks at for such a long time. Nothing on his father's grave, nor his grandparents.

Connor looms over the headstone of his father. It honestly scares Hank a bit, to see him cold without even needing to look him in the eye. He leans close, "Do you want to piss on his grave or anything?"

Connor's hand briefly goes to the button on his waistband. "No… I like standing over him just fine. I made it."

"Just let me know if you want me to do it. That'd send him turning."

It gets a little crack in the stone facade. Connor finds his hand and squeezes.

Across from Connor's, is Richard's grave. And there is nothing on it. Connor doesn't know why it hits him as hard as it does. He thinks Richard should have bouquets upon bouquets here. He should be shown respect in his status. He is important.

He was important.

The breath that comes out of him feels like it contains his soul, it's so heavy with grief. He lets himself bend at the knee onto the cool, manicured grass. "Oh, no…"

"Connor." Hank soothes, still hand in hand, shielding him from the sun as he steps in behind him.

"I didn't think… I didn't know what I'd think." He says, not hysterical like the first time he'd set eyes on Richard's portrait after he awoke, but like he's been kicked in the chest and numb from the pain. The pressure still squeezes his lungs. The sun feels hot.

Like Richard sitting in the parlor outside Connor's prison, now Connor sits on the other side. Free and so close, yet still worlds away. And as he feels the blades of grass through his glove, he does not know how to deal with that. Knowing someone is gone is different from seeing where they lie.

"Hey, flower bud. Stay with me." Hank coos, rubbing across his shoulders. "Con… it says he lived to be eighty-two. Eighty-two whole years, Connor. He lived."

"I'm so glad he lived." Connor chokes, meaning it with his entire soul. Even if Connor didn't get those years, he's glad Richard did. He has his own now.

He shakily brushes away the dirt and stray blades of grass from Richard's headstone. Runs his fingers along his name and lets himself cry over it. He knew when Hank was teaching him about the future, about what year it was, that obviously Richard was gone. That his whole family and everyone he ever knew was gone. Seeing the stark reality… hurts. He feels loss for them all, even if he doesn’t want to for some.

He takes the flowers from his own grave, and divides them between his brother’s and his grandmother’s headstones. He doesn’t need the tulips, and it can be argued neither do they, but… Connor needs them to need the flowers.

And Hank stands with him the entire time.

Hank lets him grieve and offers silent sympathies and support. Touches him to comfort but not stop his cries, and when Connor pulls himself up off the ground, Hank uses the end of his sleeve to gently dab his face dry.

“It’s okay,” Hank tells him, shielding him from the sun again. “You’re okay.”

“My heart.” he whispers, voice feeling hoarse.

“I know.” Hank says, and Connor believes that he does. His hand settles over Connor’s chest and the warmth of his skin seeps through slowly. “Let me take you home. Let me take care of you.”

Connor thinks with all the offers those words have held, with everyone who has ever asked him— Hank’s words come with feeling, with far more than has ever been offered before. Connor doesn’t have to do anything but accept, and know he’ll be okay.

Hank makes him a bath. Hank undresses him with patience and soothing, nonsense words that mean he can tune out the meaning to and simply feel the vibration of Hank’s wonderful voice. Hank kisses him slow, with love, and offers to wash his hair. And when Connor feels sleepy, Hank has Sumo watch him so he doesn’t slip down in the tub.

He falls asleep tucked into Hank’s chest, the two of them tangled on the couch while Hank binge watches the new season of his favorite television show. Hank sleeps there too, it’s comfortable enough, and he doesn’t have the heart to wake Connor or leave him alone on the couch.

He texts Cole to see if he can get some plasma for Connor, but ends up with a call on his hands.

“Dad,” Cole says over the line, “I’m happy to do that, but… You need to come in. There’s been some issue with your test results.”

“What kind of issue?”


	17. the lease of life

Hank goes to the hospital on his own. He makes his way down to the lab where Cole meets him at the door and leads him right into a back room. Cole shuts the door, which he doesn’t normally do, and has his father’s alarm bells going off like crazy.

“Cole, honey.” he starts, fidgeting slightly as Cole buzzes around the room. Something’s really got him. “You wanna tell me what’s going on?”

“Yeah, just. Give me a second.” Cole gets into his gloves and directs him out of his jacket. He starts to prep Hank for a blood draw, but Hank gently takes him by the wrist.

“Cole. Is it bad?” he asks, looking at the worry in his son’s eyes. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not. And I have to be sure.” Cole tells him. Hank hasn’t seen him like this since the accident.

So, Hank lets him fuss. Cole takes the draw and gives Hank a checkup while the fancy lab equipment runs through all the tests Cole’s input. He gets the two of them coffee and they sip in tense silence until the tests ding. Hank thinks about how bad it could be, whatever’s in the results, when he’s started to feel better than ever. He wonders if it’s what’s left of the slug in his leg, finally come to turn toxic and ruin his goddamn day. Or his fucking liver.

“Is it my liver?” he asks, suddenly, as soon as the thought comes to him. “I’ve had a few glasses of wine, but… Is that it? Is it finally giving out?”

Cole tosses the rest of his coffee to feverishly check the results. He grimaces into the scope, and skim through the readout. “Your liver isn’t failing, Pops. It’s just…”

Hank watches him get more and more frustrated. Then Cole gets up from his stool and storms from the room, and comes back with another slip of paper. He looks at them both and gives a big sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I… I don’t know what to tell you. I thought it might have been the equipment, or the sample I got before. That’s why I wanted you to come in. I’ve never seen this happen.”

“What is it? It’s okay, you can lay it on me.” Hank tells him, beckoning him closer. “Cole, whatever happens, it’s okay. I know I’ve been on borrowed time for a _long_ fucking time—”

“Pops, you’re the healthiest I’ve ever seen.” Cole interrupts. He looks so conflicted. “Some of your conditions have actually improved, when we were told they wouldn’t. And medically, it shouldn’t be happening.”

Hank feels himself go from sad acceptance to full fucking confusion. “What? What the fuck does that mean?”

“With your history of drinking, the accident and that _fucking_ surgery… you plateaued on recovery a few years ago. But now— It’s… your body’s just giving off readings that you're healthier than you should be.” Cole shows him the results on the pages, some of it he can understand from time spent in ample medical company. “Your levels are so much more balanced, even your testosterone increased— which shouldn’t be happening at your age. The tests on your liver… Pops, it’s—”

Cole swallows thick, giving himself a moment to get past the lump in his throat. Hank reaches out to rub his arm, then pull him closer to tousle his hair like he used to when he was little, “Hey, kid…”

“You weren’t supposed to get better. But now you are, your liver’s started repairing itself. Your _whole body_ is showing signs of improvement. Your skin even looks healthier.” Cole sniffs and holds him at the forearm, shaking his head. “But I don’t know why it’s happening or if it’s going to keep. I don’t know if it’s going to stop and you’re going to go downhill fast and—”

Hank tugs him into a hug, squeezing his son to his chest. “Shh. Shh, honey. Just take a minute.”

“I’m so relieved you’re not gonna be in as much pain, but I’m so _worried_.” Cole admits, muffled into Hank’s shoulder.

“Don’t worry yourself about something good.” Hank soothes, still trying to go through the dump of information. He doesn’t let himself be excited about it yet. He’s been told again and again that nothing would fix certain things wrong with him. Coupled with his bad coping skills and choices he’d made, the accident just kinda fucked him for the rest of his life. At the time, it was devastating to hear, especially when he had been doing incredible at improving himself and his life, and by extension his family’s life. Cole’s life.

He didn’t want to be a burden again, something to take care of, and it scared him those first few weeks when Cole encouraged him to sign him on as his nurse. It all made sense, and still does now more than ever, but those first weeks all he could see was Cole at sixteen finding him passed out drunk again. He had pushed himself probably harder than he should have to make himself the best he could be, knowing there was a ceiling. Knowing some issues with his left side would never get better, knowing his liver was fucking shot to hell, knowing he’d never be in the shape he was when he made Lieutenant or when Cole was born. He knew, and he accepted it.

He wanted to spend his quieter years in an old fixer-upper he saw at an auction, settled in with his dog. He accepted the ceiling.

And now Cole has just told him that the ceiling installed an elevator.

And like a fucking specter in the corner of the room, he thinks about Connor.

Connor, and when he takes from Hank to survive, he gives back for the gift of it. Because he wants to be kind, he wants to make sure Hank knows how much that trust means to him. So, he gives. Vitamins? Chemicals? Endorphins? Shit that stimulates glands and receptors and things all over Hank’s body?

The headstone said Richard lived to be eighty-two. People from that time don’t fucking live to be eighty-two goddamn years old. It’s like Richard’s in the fucking room, manifested as a ghost in the chill at the back of his neck saying, ‘ _Well, Hank, look what happens when you let that bleeding heart of a man care for you._ ’

There’s no other explanation. There’s no denying the spring in his step the morning after Connor’s sunk his teeth in. He’s got it all lingering in there, and his own blood replenishing on top of that. It’s like he’s just a little bit better for it every time, and now it’s having real life consequences.

“I don’t know what it could be… Have you been taking anything?” Cole is asking, still caught between incredible relief and the dread of its potential loss.

“Taking anything?” He can’t fucking concentrate.

“Is it… God, is it drugs?” Cole pulls back to look at him, eyes red. “I’m not judging.”

“That sounds kinda judgy.” Hank defends himself and doesn’t know why he’s defending himself. “I admitted to having the wine! Why wouldn’t I tell you about drugs?”

“People don’t like telling their medical providers about illegal substances.”

“You’re my son!”

“Or their family members!”

“Cole, I was on the Red Ice task force. I brought down junkies, I know what drugs do to people!”

Cole brings his hands up, pulling a face, “Listen! If in your twilight years you wanted to do a little… _nu-uh_ … and get a little high—”

“ _Cole Ambrose_ —!”

“This is my place of work, don’t bring my middle name into this!” Cole huffs, pushing back on his stool and rubbing his hands over his face. “I’m _just saying_. I’d want you to tell me. It could skew and mask the test results."

“Cole, I’m not doing drugs.” Is Connor considered a drug? Are Connor’s teeth and spit and… well. The anxiety pricks a little bit at the back of his neck. It’s a kind of high, isn’t it? But it’s not like Connor’s giving him a fucking line of coke every time he eats.

Right?

“I’m just… living better?”

“Is it Connor?”

Hank goes cold. “Uh… Hm?”

“Your mysterious boyfriend. With all the deficiencies?” Cole ventures, looking very much like a doctor with his elbows on his knees and about to lay down some knowledge. “I’ve seen plenty of cases where people suffering turn to certain substances to curb the pain.”

“You’ve seen that in me, too.” Hank says.

“Not anymore.” Cole smiles softly. He sighs, “If Connor’s giving you something, I at least want to know what it is. It could be giving you good right now, but you know like every drug, there’s a price.”

Hank doesn’t know where to start. He’ll shrug off the question of his sobriety because he knows it comes from a place of care. But he can’t even start to deal with the insinuation that— not only does Connor take a bunch of drugs, but that he then shares those drugs with Hank and they get squiggly off in space together.

“It’s not drugs. I’m not on drugs. _We_ are not on drugs.” He promises.

Connor used to dose on cocaine with his goddamn chewing gum and sipping on his sodas, but Hank doesn’t think about that.

“I am just living better. I’ve got the house to work on, and all the fresh air. I eat kale and my physical therapist says my range of motion is pretty damn good. Not even for my age! Just damn good.” He starts pointing out his reasons on his fingers. “My retired work life is better. My self care is better. My home life is better… my love life is better.”

Cole spins around on his chair to grab his notepad, looking as frazzled as Hank feels and just grasping at each thing as it comes. “On that, I was going to ask if you needed more pills.”

Hank feels embarrassment crawl over his face, “I… Yeah.”

Cole spends a few minutes writing up things, and they both process. Hank notices the little AA meeting card tucked into his clipboard, and it gets him in the heart a little bit how much Cole was prepared to help him rather than chew him out if he had actually fallen off the wagon. He wishes he could admit everything. About him, about Connor. As much as he doesn’t want to lie to his son, that secret isn't his to tell.

Cole gives a big sigh as he spares a look at the test results one more time. “Sorry… I needed to decompress, and I’m just trying to wrap my head around this. As your son. Knowing, for right now, you’re more okay than you’ve ever been. Maybe… something’s just giving you a second chance.”

He thinks about Connor being his second chance at a lot of things. It makes him smile. “Honey, I think things are gonna be okay. Even if I get worse tomorrow, I would’ve had today. Okay?”

He knows Cole doesn’t like that, but there’s a peace in it that’s always comforted Hank. Especially when he was with the police. And Cole understands that. So he nods and returns his dad’s smile, “Okay. I’m gonna be monitoring you some more now, but okay.”

“Deal.” He sighs, maybe thankful that’s all that’s happening. “Kid, can I still grab some stuff for Connor?”

Cole nods, already getting up. But then he pauses, “Hey… don’t tell him I accused him of being a drug dealer, okay?”

Hank walks out of the hospital with a cooler of fun biohazard goodies, a script for fifteen tabs of little blue pills, and the promise that his newfound health will stay quiet until Cole can figure out definitively what’s going on.

Oh, and his new lease on life. He walks about with that, too.

Just a little. He lets himself feel that.

As in, he swings by the pharmacy and swallows down a pill with half a can of iced tea in the parking lot, goes home and with a pack of plasma warming in a bowl of hot water by the bedside, he crawls on top of Connor and kisses him very awake.

It’s different this time when he kisses Connor all in love and wanting, and he realizes it’s because there’s a short, prickly stubble rubbing against his beard while they kiss. He thinks of the elevator analogy. That Connor’s giving has heightened the capacity on his health, allows him a higher point to reach in recovery.

Now he wonders, how many levels has he given Connor?

When they’re still laying in bed, Connor not quite ready for the sex to be over so he’s keeping Hank flat on his back and nestled fully inside, he traces patterns on Hank’s sweaty chest and asks so gently, “How did it happen?”

“The tattoo?” Hank tries to clarify, fingers smoothing up and down Connor’s flank.

“No,” Connor does kiss the tattoo though, in appreciation. His touch moves downward, to one of the scars at Hank’s side, “These.”

“Ah.” He lets his hand find Connor’s. He’s relaxed enough to explain it, he knows Connor’s wanted to ask every time he touches them. “It was a mess of bad moments, and all those moments were in sequence. It ended my career.”

“Oh, Hank.” Connor lays his head down, looking up at him with those sweet, deep dark eyes.

He runs his fingers through Connor’s wild hair. It seems longer. “It was a badly handled situation all around. It started with a shitty crime with shitty criminals. Chris called in for backup while responding to what dispatch thought was a run of the mill robbery. Turns out it was bigger than a simple robbery, and I was the only one close by. Before I even get completely to the scene, I get blindsided by a fortified bank truck. A stolen fortified bank truck. They've got Chris out front by gunpoint, and Chris— he’d already been through enough with the Revolution. My car’s rolled over, and I’m seeing him there with his hands up as all the blood rushes to, and out, of my head… and I somehow get myself out of the car.”

He can almost feel it again if he thinks on it too deep. He tries not to. “Shoulder’s displaced, hip’s fuckin’ broken, I know something’s wrong with my back… and I walk up to ‘em all. By that time, there’s SWAT trying to set up a perimeter, there’s news stations on us. Chris is blabbering at the mouth, distracting them enough that they don’t see it. They’re still trying to ferry money. And I walk up. I saw the news broadcast, I looked like hell. But I didn’t feel too much of it yet. And I tell the guy with the gun to point it at me.”

“Hank.” Connor reprimands, reaching up to cup his cheek. He gives a wry smile and presses a kiss to his palm.

“I knew I wasn’t in good shape, bud. Better me than Chris. I knew they’d carry Cole through if this was it for me.” He reasons, feeling along Connor’s cold fingerprints, “So, I try to talk him down. I call his attention now to all the guns trained on him, all the police. Thinking, he has to back down. There’s no way out… Well, he had the same thought. But because I laid it out for him, he wanted to take me with him.”

He finds the gnarly old scar in between his chest and stomach, “Got my lung and liver with his first shot.” and he knocks his left knee against Connor’s thigh, “Knee on his second. He didn’t live. I went down like a sack of bricks, thinking I wouldn’t either.”

Connor moves off of him to kiss a path, point A to point B between the two wounds. His voice is caught somewhere between upset and disbelief, “Hank… that's an awful thing. Have my sympathies.”

“It’s alright. I was prepared for that, it’s a risk of the job. What I wasn’t prepared for was the weirdest damn twist of fate.” He sighs, reaching back to prop his head on a pillow. “I told you the story about Cole and the car accident, the android that saved his life because of the doctor on Red Ice.”

“I remember.” Connor encourages him along, not happy to hear the stories but glad to be trusted with them.

“Well, I guess something had to give there in the big ‘ol universe. Cole was spared an unfit doctor, thank god, but wouldn’t you know it? The high-class doctor Cyberlife had assigned that day in their new dabble into fixing humans instead of androids… he was high on Red Ice when I got slid onto his table.”

Connor’s eyes turn dark, his whole face shifts into grisly understanding. As if the first half wasn't enough. He nods, “Yeah. I almost bled out. My lung collapsed. My liver took yet another hit, as if my years of drinking hadn’t done enough to it. My heart stopped.”

“No.” Connor whispers, almost angry, his eyes welling up.

“I was dead on that table for a minute and a half. He didn’t finish the surgery, his colleagues kicked him out. They never even got the shrapnel out of my leg, they just wanted to close up my chest… I remember waking up and seeing Cole angry. Seeing my boy lost, and with no way to help. He was still wearing his purple scrubs, he’d been doing rounds downstairs.”

Connor lays his hand over Hank’s chest, his warm and moving heart. Thinks about himself laying in the snow and remembering the moment he couldn’t hear his heart pounding in his ears anymore. “Your heart stopped, too? What… What happened? You’re okay now, what happened?”

Because if it were Connor’s time, Hank wouldn’t have had a chance at all.

“Lots of stuff happened. I was treated by Cyberlife doctors because the police station had bowed under the pressure to be an example, to support Cyberlife in their new insurance and healthcare system. And when they fucked up, they wanted to keep it quiet. They didn’t want to say they messed up, and didn’t vet their surgeons. They lost android production, so they scrambled to new, shitty horizons.”

“But Cole said we get the blood from the insurance?”

“We do… I was a special case. Them being a huge, multimillion dollar company that preaches wellness for all but doesn't give a shit unless you're rich. A team of lawyers, bigwig execs in their vacation homes, the whole nine. It made them pretty untouchable. But me, being high-ranking police in the public eye and having everyone scrambling for news on my condition after the accident… It made me untouchable, too.”

He smiles a little tenderly. “It was something, Connor. Cole telling me there were people outside the hospital, ones I’d helped during the Revolution, people I’d hid or smuggled through police checkpoints— they were there. Asking about my condition. North making a big scene, all the Traci models I snuck off the trucks when the police raided that damn club to aid in the recalls… The news had a lower-third with updates on my care and to tell people to stop sending flowers, I had too many.”

Connor gently kisses him on the mouth, smoothing down his beard with his fingertips. “You deserve many flowers.”

Hank shakes his head bashfully, “But that got me bumped up to the top of Cyberlife’s food chain, and suddenly I have access to all the shit the people in need don't. And I have it for life. That was the unspoken deal, the fucking smudged print when the CEO himself came to chat with me while I was still pissing blood and fucked ten ways from Sunday. Their company doesn’t tank, and I get coverage for anything. So now I get to choose my doctors, and my own nurse… and I siphon everything I can from that damn company, my doc and Cole and me try to section off my healthcare wherever we can get away with it.”

“And that’s why we get the blood.” Connor says, and he sounds sad about it.

“And that’s why we get the blood.” He kisses Connor’s nose, thumbs at his stubbly chin and looks at him like he’s in love.

“It’s a terrible trade.” Connor remarks, pulling the blanket higher over them like he can protect Hank from things that have already happened.

“It brought me to you.” Hank says, and when Connor blinks the tears slip down his cheek. Hank just bundles him closer, “I bought the house with money I didn’t need to spend on medical bills. You and other people get to survive with the meds you need, and I get to be right here. Holding you… When I look at all the pros and cons, which I don’t do too often anymore, I think the trade was okay.”

Connor sits with that for a long while. He adorns Hank with kisses that linger, it comforts him into a hazy glow of rest. Hank can't feel each sharp knob of Connor's spine anymore when he runs his hands over his skin, and it settles something warm in him. Each time Hank gets him under his fingertips, he's more and more alive.

He silently promises to make sure it lasts.

"Sometimes I wish you'd been with me, back then." Connor says, and Hank hums. "You'd be a source of intrigue, capturing everyone's hearts, and dressed in the finest clothes. I'd have sent away to Paris for a silk that matched your eyes. Every finger would have a ring. Every suit button shiny and enticing to coax open. We'd have gone to parties and danced to a concert of talented musicians, and had sex on velveteen lounges while people wondered where we ran off to. I'd have commissioned your portrait. Given you anything you desired…"

Hank knows it's for the extravagance of it all, and Connor doesn't mean it that way because that way wasn't possible, but. A ring on every finger. He knows he wouldn't have handled all that attention well, but it is fanciful and rose colored in Connor's vision. It's sweet to think about when he thinks about the way Connor loves. With everything he has, quietly while bigger things boom in the forefront.

Silk to match his eyes, _It would build a reputation for being so thoughtfully adorned, people would meet you just to get lost in your eyes as I do._

Parties and dancing, _So everyone could see the way I look at you, and how beautifully we fit together._

Velveteen couches hidden away, _Where’s it’s not showing off anymore. Because for all I show off, I’m happy to let people wonder while I show you instead of them._

Commissioning his portrait, _To keep you always in my home and heart, every brush stroke a thought of you._

Given anything he desired, _Given you me. Take from my plate. Drink from my cup. Hold my still beating heart._

"I've got that last one." Hank whispers into his hair, tender all over.

"And that's why I don't wish for it as much anymore." Connor whispers back, like a secret. "I don't long for the occasions and the cigarette smoke and… all of it at my fingertips."

All of it. His old life. People included.

Connor traces an appreciative line along Hank's brow, down the slope of his nose. "Because you're happy with coffees in the morning. With jazz records and help with your shaving. With folded laundry and pruned gardens and… me."

Hank catches a tear with his thumb just before it falls, "I don't need consolation prizes to love you, Connor."

"And you're the first I felt I didn't have to give them to, to be enough." Connor sounds like a dam beginning to crack.

Hank settles their foreheads together and with a firm tone, doused in sureness and security, he murmurs to Connor's soul directly. "You, as you are, is always a precious gift."

Hank thinks about that gnawing feeling in his gut. The one that told him, so many months ago, that he could not live with himself if he didn't break the locks on that door in the secret parlor, behind the other secret door, inside his ancient fucking house. Incredible, that feeling was.


	18. free men of the forest and other sentiments

There's a note from Connor sticky taped to his laptop when Hank settles down for his morning coffee. ' _I’ve used your credit card to purchase items. I have returned the amount inside. A man will deliver them today at 1pm. Until then, I will sleep, and my dreams will be of you._ '

Well, if that's not interesting (and kinda really cute). Hank flips open his laptop and the amount in cash is sitting on the keyboard. It's a good amount. He collects it off to the side and gets on with his morning, idly wondering what the delivery will be.

And when 1pm rolls around, a truck comes up the long driveway. Hank expects a bunch of stuff to be left on the porch, maybe a knock at the door where he has to sign for something. But they start ferrying things around the house, into the backyard. Sumo is sitting at his favorite window and makes a little noise to alert Hank that people are around, so Hank has to go and check.

The delivery person is using a drone-assisted crate to bring things along, so whatever it is must be heavy. Hank signs for Sumo to stay before he leans out the door, giving a wave. “Afternoon!”

“Hello, Mr. Anderson! I’m getting your delivery set up, as per your instructions. Would you like me to leave your barrels on the porch? They may get swept away if the wind picks up.”

Connor bought some barrels? He just nods along, “Yeah, that’s fine. Do I have to sign for anything?”

“Not at all, sir! I’ll have everything done in a few trips to my truck.” they promise as they begin to ferry out… a pallet of building material? What did Connor buy?

“Ah. Well, thank you! Shout if you need anything.”

They wish each other a good day and Hank goes back inside with more questions than answers. He signs to Sumo that the delivery person is good, and Sumo relaxes, laying his chin on the windowsill to watch. Hank wonders what Connor’s up to. He thinks he won’t have to wonder long, because just a little while later he hears the floorboards creak as Connor starts to get up.

He gets a phone call while debating going up to see if Connor’s hungry.

“Mr. Anderson, good afternoon. This is Annika Sterling, we spoke before about Richard Stern’s safety deposit box? You wrote this number on the claim file. I hope I’m reaching you at a convenient time.”

“Ah, now’s fine. Is there some sort of problem?” He hopes she’s not going to try to say the bank shouldn’t have let them take the box.

“No, Mr. Anderson. It’s not exactly a problem… We did some searching through our old records. To place copies with your claim file for our updated files. And we came across something interesting that really called for attention.”

He puts down his coffee cup, an odd feeling twisting up in his stomach. “Go on.”

“We found another box.”

“Holy shit. I mean— hold on. Wait, you found _another_ box that was Richard’s?” He’s already getting up from his chair, “Are you sure?”

“Yes, Mr. Anderson.”

“We don’t have the key.”

“The key is here, at the bank. The description says entitlement is based on the claim of the first box. Which is you. It’s a little fantastical, honestly.”

Hank’s hustling his way up the stairs and into Connor’s room, where he’s sleepily mozying through getting dressed. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Could you explain that to my partner? Connor, remember? He’s the one it really belongs to.”

Connor looks up at him with soft eyes and a questioning hum, setting down the trousers he was going to change into. Hank beckons him closer, giving him the phone. “It’s the lady from the bank. Remember? The manager. She’s gotta talk to you.”

Connor takes the phone and offers a small hello, before listening to Mrs. Sterling explain that they found another fucking box of Richard’s. Like some kind of Victorian inheritance surprise in an overly dramatic movie. Hank watches Connor’s face as he intakes the information. The slow, dawning realization of what’s been found, of what that means.

Of what could be waiting for him.

It’s like his thoughts and feelings all play out over his face as he listens, and gives short, obviously stunned answers. She must say it’s for him, and use his name, because the emotion that crosses his face— the way his shoulders sag and his chest stutters and his chin wrinkles is such a mix of acknowledgement, dread and urgency. He looks overwhelmed and Hank feels a little bad for dropping a big thing on him as soon as he’s awake, but this isn’t something that could really sit without him knowing.

When he hands the phone back to Hank, they've already hung up and Connor looks so tired in everything but his eyes. “Hank, will you take me to the bank today? Will you accompany me?”

“You know what I’m going to say, sweetheart.” Hank tells him, reaching out to try and tame his hair, but even more just… to comfort him.

His lip wobbles, “Thank you.”

Hank doesn’t have to, but he helps Connor get dressed. Picks out some sweatpants and some short sleeves while Connor gets into his UV underclothes. He offers gentle kisses and tousles Connor’s hair with a little bit of pomade, twirling his finger around the one strand of hair that wants to stay astray.

“You look handsome.” he says, pressing a soft smooch to Connor’s cheek.

“I look… comfortable.” Connor sighs. He’s still very much used to being all dolled up whenever he leaves. It’s just habit.

“Today, you deserve to look and _feel_ comfortable.” he promises, and smooths his hand down Connor's back, “And you being comfortable is so incredibly attractive.”

Connor pulls him into a hug. Stands up on his tiptoes and squeezes Hank to his cold body with a little bit of strength that can easily make Hank’s back crack like running the mallet over a xylophone. He lets Connor steady himself while they hold each other, feeling his heavy sigh along the whole line of his body.

"I'm hungry." Connor admits.

"You can eat after we come home." Hank offers, squeezing the back of his neck. "There's some bags in the fridge, and I'm right here."

"It's always sweeter when it comes from you." He remarks as they part so Connor can find the new boots he bought himself.

"Like, literally or figuratively?"

"Yes."

The two of them go to the bank, and Connor has a hell of a time with dodging the sun. Hank is sure he's a little more than just uncomfortable. Connor won't say it hurts.

He's almost resigned when they meet with Annika again. He doesn't want this box to be like the last one. He's getting himself ready for things but not a peep from his brother. Hank's gut honestly churns a little sickly wondering how it'll affect Connor if this is just another survival kit. It's so kind, but it's not exactly what Connor needs.

They have to answer a question this time. And alright, Hank thought Connor was supposed to be the dramatic one? Richard and his cryptic shit has become drama number one. ' _My immortal enemy, the sun!_ ' could not prepare Hank for the sheer fuckery of—

"Through trenches of fences thrice, over hill and rock, and the stream we always left wet in our shoes. It laid suspended there on the horizon and the sunset was a guest to our feast." Annika reads from the note in envelope number one. She looks to Connor expectantly, "You need to give an answer… it's a bit ridiculous, but those are the instructions William Sanders signed off on."

"May I see the page?" Connor asks, and gently slips off his glove to receive it. The corner of his mouth pulls up. "Ah. It's his handwriting."

Hank peeks over to see. From knowing Richard's journal, it's absolutely his handwriting. "Was he trying to be dramatic?"

Connor's eyes crinkle. "Hm. And you have the answer, Mrs. Sterling?"

"I do." She holds up the second envelope, with the key inside. "I'm blown away by the system of this. I don't know how Mr. Stern got William to agree to this."

"Well, maybe they were both a little dramatic." Hank offers.

"It's an apple tree." Connor says, laying the old paper back onto her desk. He sounds very sure of himself.

She looks at him with so much doubt. "That's what you think it is?"

Connor simply nods.

Annika breaks the seal on the second envelope. The letter opener catches against the edge and when it tips, a scattering of seeds fall across her desk. She and Hank both sit a little bit stunned, and Connor looks expectant now. She finds the key and her face falls into incredible disbelief.

She turns the cardstock for them to see.

' _The apple tree_ '.

They're apple seeds.

Connor gracefully takes the key, something sparkling covertly behind his eyes. He's _amused_. Hank realizes it like whiplash.

"How did you know that?" Annika asks, looking like she's seen a ghost.

And honestly? Yeah, maybe, a little.

Connor's answer is just as fucking haunting, "How couldn't I?"

Hank wants to (lovingly) choke the fuck out of him. The drama! The extravagance! Apple seeds in the damn envelope! He can only imagine what Amanda Stern went through raising the two of them.

But it also rings loud in Hank's old cop senses. Connor is maybe the only one who could give that answer.

They're led yet again into the white and chrome room with that one singular plant. It's gotta be rubber. Connor sits really still. And when the box is gently settled in front of them and the employees have gone, they sit with it. Kind of like you sit with a landmine. Neither of them so much as shift, and Connor's breaths are so unnaturally subtle that Hank can't see his chest move.

When Connor finally reaches over, it's to put the key in Hank's hand. "As children, we would play 'escape' from our home. The fences on our property, the farmland a few acres away, and the private orchard further than that. The small creek that made for fantastical treading. I always splashed in it, I was in character."

"Nothing wrong with that." Hank says quietly.

"We agonized mother coming home in wet clothing. Only because we climbed through the window, onto her oriental rug… Richard would stand on my shoulders and pick the apples off the tree, and we would eat them as if we were free men of the forest." Connor gives a sad smile.

Hank fiddles with the key. "Free men of the forest, huh?"

"We loved that forest." Connor whispers.

Hank doesn't think there's anything he could say. With an internal sigh, he sits up and unlocks the box. Connor doesn't sit up to look. Hank feels a pang of disappointment on Connor's behalf. They're lidded boxes, two of them. And Hank's probably never had his thought before in his life, but he hopes they're not diamonds.

He doesn't even take the boxes out, just reaches for one lid. It comes up and off with an old treated cardboard scrape, and— "Oh."

It's filled with envelopes.

The first one says ' _Connor_ ' on the front.

It's filled with _letters_.

"Connor." The breath comes out of him like losing it to the sea, dragging the safety deposit box closer. His astonishment must read significantly enough because Connor straightens up to see the hubbub, and it's like the hard set of his expression just melts.

He stares like he's looking down the barrel of a gun. Like he's a child in a toy store. Like he's a big brother that's been waiting for word of his family. It's Richard's handwriting, however messy.

Hank gingerly picks the first letter, of fucking _many_ up from the box, and Connor opens his hands like he's receiving a blessing at church. "Steady now, bud."

Connor doesn’t even have a reply. Hank gives him his pocket knife when he has trouble pulling up the envelope’s flap. Connor forces himself to take a deep breath before he starts to read aloud. “ **Connor, I am writing this to you in Paris. Forgive me for any erratic thoughts. I will write my history in shorthand. I planned to free you and escape in the night.** ”

He looks up as if someone’s struck him. Hank sags backwards into his seat, “Oh, Connor.”

“ **I had gathered your favorite garments, a bag of your possessions, acquired train tickets for midnight.** ” He continues with a lump forming in his throat, “ **They must have known. Somehow, they knew. I spent my thoughts on it many days. I had the time. Father’s men intercepted me in the parlor. I am still angry to say I was not strong enough to win against them. They dragged me through our home, ignoring my screams, the walls echoing with mine and mother’s cries. Oh, how I begged her…** ”

Connor sets the letter down, covering his face with his hands. His shoulders pull up close to his head and it’s a terrible moment where Connor holds a wail in the back of his throat and thinks about the dead and how much they have harmed. Hank pulls him over into the comfort of his arms, laying his head on Connor’s shoulders, “God, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.”

A broken, tight noise cuts from Connor’s mouth. He’s so tense, like stone against Hank’s chest. He doesn’t let Hank hold him for long, he shrinks away and shoves the letter across the table. Hank feels so bad for him but he gives him some space, and clears his throat softly before reading Richard’s words. “ **I know now she could not do anything to stop it, either… Father seemed put together, but was shaking with fear as I cursed his name. Fear and violence, simply from not having ‘perfect children’,** ”

He’s walking around the table because he feels he has to move, but he pauses to look directly at Connor. Richard’s words are so fucking important. “ **You were not a monster. You, still, are not a monster. I will not have you think it.** ”

“Shit.” Connor sobs, pressing the edges of his sleeves against his eyes.

“ **Father told me I was going away. Using my outbursts and misbehavior as he had your own, spun another lie. That I had not dealt with your loss well. That I had not been able to let go. And in a certain light, it is true, but only because I know the greater truth.** ” Hank whispers a small ‘fuck’ in between sentences before he has to read the next out loud, “ **I don’t know if you’ve expired, brother, I may have very well lost you all the while thinking different. Still, I will not let you stay trapped where you are. I would rather live the trauma of rescuing only a memory, to see you laid to rest.** ”

Richard would’ve opened the coffin to find a very different, very gruesome scene than Hank did, rather than let Connor stay locked in that room. Fuck. Hank’s seen cops not even ready to do that. He skims the next paragraph and whistles lowly, shaking his head. “Christ. Connor, are you sure—?”

“Hank.” It’s said so pleadingly, and Hank feels sorrow sink into his shoulders. Connor’s emotion even across the room is powerful.

He swallows hard, paper crinkling stiff with age, “ **Connor, this letter is only so far from the others because I have been in an asylum for the past three years.** ”

God, they fucking locked Richard away, too.

“ **I was trapped, and I can barely believe it was three years, myself. I thought of you often, the two of us locked away in the dark. I am in my right mind now, admittedly much thinner than I was, but intact. During the abuse, the drugs… I admit I hallucinated your specter**.”

Connor shrinks down so small in his seat when he lets the cries break through. Hank can’t stand to watch him, he’s been through so goddamn much. He can’t really hold him when Connor’s got his head almost between his knees, but he tries his best. He rocks them gently and bites down on the inside of his cheek, feeling his own eyes well up.

He presses a kiss to Connor’s hair, shushing him softly, telling him he’s sorry. Hank doesn’t think he could ever be sorry enough. It can’t take the pain, or the knowledge, or the ability to change one speck of it. While he rubs Connor’s back, he reads the rest of the letter to himself. He rubs away a tear that falls. “Hey. Connor, honey, hey… Listen to this. Listen, alright?”

Richard’s handwriting is shaky but Hank reads regardless, “ **But as I sit here, the fresh air against my face, in an outdoor cafe— I am alight with life. I can smell the breakfast meats and freshly baked bread I am going to eat, the terribly strong coffee. I am with a friend, and I am safe. They did not shake me. And they will not have me within their grasp again.** ”

Connor just cries louder. He claws at Hank’s shirt when he clings to a hug, hiding between the collar of Hank’s coat and where neck meets shoulder. The letter isn’t even signed, like Richard just wanted to get the words out. Give the information. Hank hopes that meal he was supposed to get was good, it sounds like he desperately needed it. Connor doesn’t speak— when he tries, it’s just all hiccups and unintelligible words. Hank smooths his hair back and tells him it’s okay. That he loves him. That it’s okay for him to let it all out.

Mrs. Sterling comes to check on them and Hank just waves her away.

He asks if Connor wants him to read another letter, but he just holds Hank closer to him. They sit for a long time, and he gets worried when Connor starts to shake. Even after he quiets down and is mostly slack in Hank’s arms, the whole of him is still trembling.

“Let me take you home.” he whispers into Connor’s hair.

“I can’t carry them.” Connor’s voice sounds so scratchy.

“I’ll carry them.” _And you_ , Hank doesn’t say.


	19. the fate of many Sterns

Connor’s scared of the letters. He doesn’t touch them for several days. Instead, he buzzes around Hank, making sure he’s content and comfortable before spending whole nights out in the backyard. He works on his project that he won’t really tell Hank about, just that he’s been enjoying working with his hands. It seems like a kind of therapy for him, so Hank doesn’t push.

He’s a little reserved, quiet. He reads the self-care books Cole gives and makes himself lists. They make love and Connor looks at Hank for a long time afterwards. Touches his hair and caresses his face and kisses so, so gently. They bathe together, the water too hot for Hank but he’s more than happy to sweat to see Connor content these days. When he washes his hair, they both come to the realization that it has gotten longer. His facial hair too, it’s noticeable. He informs Hank he’d like to get it cut, and the next day they do.

Hank takes him to a classic barber shop that still has the cool 70s vinyl flooring, he’s known the owner for six years, and Connor sits anxiously in the chair. Hank looks at him through the mirror and gives him a little wink to lift his spirits. Out in the waiting room, Hank hears him speaking indistinctly with the barber as he texts with Cole. He can hear Connor at one point, praising the seat they use to wash people’s hair.

It’s like the reveal in 90s movies where the love interest takes off their glasses, or comes down the stairs dressed for prom. Connor rounds the corner, and Hank kinda really gets stars in his eyes. It’s reminiscent of Connor’s style before, with the little part and swoop on top, those soft tufts. But where his hair had grown to little curls clinging to the back of his neck, it’s now replaced by a closely shaved buzz, cropped at the back and sides.

“Oh wow.” Hank stands, not able to take his eyes off him. “Look at you!”

Connor chuckles, and the one strand that never behaves falls over his forehead. “Do you like it? He said this is what is popular.”

“You look like the most handsome man I’ve ever seen.” Hank praises, coming over to run his hand up the back of Connor’s head, through all the short and prickly hairs. Connor’s shoulders draw up as he shivers, never having encountered the feeling before.

“Alright.” he squeaks, nodding as he fumbles with his wallet. “I have never had my hair this short… I must pay the man now, Hank, you have to let me go.”

Hank flushes at Connor’s tone, biting down on a grin. He puts his hands behind his back, to himself, and nods like a good ‘ol boy. “Yes, sir.”

Connor turns away but surprises Hank when he turns right back, just to cradle Hank’s cheek and press a rushed kiss to his lips. Then he’s making his way to the counter and Hank is standing there dumbstruck, lovestruck, and looking at the strong line of Connor’s shoulders.

They kiss in the car like teenagers, Hank’s hand inching underneath Connor’s cowl to rub at his new hair again. The delight and rumbling hum of want that sounds against Hank’s tongue make him want to take Connor apart right there.

They make it home, but as far as the chaise lounge in the foyer where Hank lays Connor down and gets on his knees.

Connor gets undressed in the laundry room and parades the house in just a pair of wool socks, battling the coolness of the room just for the look on his lover’s face. He brings Hank an afternoon cup of coffee and one blue pill, so casually, pressing a gentle kiss to his temple. It flushes Hank from head to toe.

Connor's hands are strong and cool against his overheated skin and Hank's gonna remember the sounds he makes for fucking _years_. Hank one hundred percent lets himself be led around to Connor's whims, and it's so good, it's so good feeling ' _I love you_ 's get pressed into the sun-made freckles on his shoulders from that raspy, gentle voice.

When they're both laying tangled together afterwards, Hank's trying not to fall asleep but Connor says he's already indulging, and just to indulge sleep, too.

He goes in between dreaming and wakefulness a few times, and wakes up to Sumo laying on his pillows instead of Connor by his side. It’s only been a few hours, but he feels an ache in his hip that says he needs to get up. He only puts on his robe, doesn’t see the point of getting all dressed if he’s only going to lounge around the house and backyard. He dips in Connor’s room to check for him, but finds him downstairs instead. After getting himself a drink, he moseys into the living room where Connor’s curled up in one corner of the couch, a medical drama running on TV.

Hank leans over the arm to press a kiss behind Connor’s ear, noticing he’s got a letter in his lap. “Hey, lover…”

“Oh, Hank.” Connor hums, happy to see Hank come around to sit. He pats his drawn-up knees and easily, Hank sits right against his legs. “You look as though you’ve slept well.”

Hank gives him a look, propping his arm on Connor’s knees. “Patting your own back?”

He smiles softly with a little shrug, “It gives a certain enjoyment… the small limp…”

“Alright!” Hank huffs bashfully, burying his grin in his cup of water. Connor’s feet push against his thigh and they relax against the cushions. Hank can’t help but want to ask about the two envelopes in Connor’s lap, so he takes a second and gestures to the safety deposit box of letters on the coffee table. “I see you got the box out.”

“Yes, I’ve… conquered just one so far. On my second.” He breathes in to speak but hesitates on what he wants to say next. Hank hears enough about ghosts.

“Yeah? It must have been something okay this time.” Hank ventures gently. “Unless you don’t want to share, you don’t have to.”

“I want to,” he says a little too quickly, feeling some relief flood in. “He spoke about his health returning and staying with the friend he mentioned. She was a nurse in the asylum, she helped him get out. He says the days have passed oddly, but she brings tomatoes when she comes home, and he’s learning to knead bread. They eat baguette slices with honey and basil from the windowsill plant.”

Hank smiles softly, “Sounds like a little place in Paris and living with a nurse was helping him recover.”

“I hope he didn’t hold any afflictions from the asylum.” It’s his biggest worry. It’s not like he could fix it, but for the sake of his peace of mind. “But he seemed… to be doing better. He was making bread, Hank. How wonderful.”

“That’s right, focus on the wonderful.” Hank squeezes his knee, “That’s good, right?”

“It is.” he agrees, holding up the pages he’s on now. “This is another one, it’s set a bit later. He’s talking about getting correspondence back from his friends near home. They’re telling him father has hired a lot of security, and mother has become a shut-in. Miss Delilah still sees her, but much less and… she seems much more quiet.”

“Was that odd for her?”

“She spoke when she had something to say.” he reasons lightly, “But she frequently had something to say, and was usually strong-worded in it.”

“In… a bad way?”

“Not always.” Connor lays his head back against the cushion. “She sometimes firmly said how much she loved me. That even though she hadn’t given birth to me, she felt as if I was her own… How much it gladdened her heart when I’d call out for my mother and I’d reach for her.”

“Moms are special, bud.” Hank nods, thumb rubbing back and forth over Connor’s knee, over all those blankets.”I should know, I lived with two of ‘em.”

Connor grins softly, “If only I was that lucky.”

“Yeah, but you had Richard. My brother’s kind of a horses’ ass.” He’s happy to see that it pulls a chuckle from Connor.

“Ah, I miss horses.” Connor gently rearranges the letters in his lap as he shifts, laying his head down at a nice angle to see his lover. “Riding the Scottish countryside…”

Hank shakes his head fondly, “Never been on a damn horse. I was always afraid it wouldn’t want me up there, and I’d slip right off the side.”

Connor looks a little saddened by that, “Oh, Hank. Any mild mannered horse would be happy to ride with you. You should give it a try.”

“Maybe one day.” He shrugs, thinking he’ll probably never touch a saddle for the rest of his life.

Connor gives him a soft look, not quite smiling but he doesn’t have to. “I… Hank, you know I adore you, yes?”

“Of course I do.” He offers his hand and Connor takes it, so he can kiss his knuckles. “I’m head over heels.”

That has the tightness diffusing throughout Connor’s entire body, with tension he didn’t even know he was holding. His stomach had been hurting the entire time he’d been reading the letters, and he didn’t even realize why. He sighs, pulling Hank’s hand towards him, until Hank has no choice but to lean his side against Connor’s legs. He rests his lover’s big hand over his chest and takes a moment just to sit with him, to remember he’s safe and times are… good. Even if some pieces of the past aren’t.

Hank just makes it easier. “I’ll tell you again if you need it.”

A few days later, Hank comes home from the farmer’s market and assorted errands to find Sumo ferrying Connor’s favorite juice in one of his little baskets. He turns and looks at Hank, distressed, and nearing the stairs… Hank can hear Connor upset from in his room. Especially with the door wide open, like Sumo had pushed his way in to help. He signs for Sumo to keep going and splits off into the kitchen.

He puts away what needs to be and leaves the rest of it. Connor hasn’t called for him, so he doesn’t go up yet. He doesn’t think he’d be much help, anyway. But he’s been saving a trick up his sleeve for a rainy day in Connor’s world.

He warms up the oven while rifling through the freezer, knocking his pinky finger on a packet of frozen chicken. But, nestled in the back, is a specially vacuum-sealed bag that he tugs out. A carton of ice cream seems fit to fly out at him, and he has to stuff everything back inside and thank the heavens it fits.

Sumo’s little comfort noises can be heard, and one of Connor’s wet sobs, with a “Thank you, good boy.”

Hank breaks the seal on the bag and drags out the parchment covered block. Immediately it’s shoved onto a sheet pan and into the low temp oven. He’s itching to go see how Connor’s doing, but makes himself put away the rest of the groceries first. Makes himself not have a response to Connor’s emotions, because the two of them upset is just a crybaby show. Once Hank starts crying too, it’s pretty much over.

He impulsively keeps checking the oven, poking the top of the parchment until he’s sure it’s thawed out. Then he’s taking it out and uncovering the block of warm soft caramels, the recipe from the museum followed to the letter. It’s a bit of a sticky business cutting the squares, but in the end he’s got a little platter of them layered with special flaky salt, and it comes along with Hank right up the stairs.

Connor is on the floor in front of his widow when Hank walks in, sniffling weakly while he reads from another letter. It seems to be a long one, some of the pages are scattered on the floor below him. Sumo is at his side, having dragged a blanket off the bed to cover one leg. He’s done his best and Hank is very proud.

“Hey, flower bud.” Hank says softly, and Connor looks like he wants to hide his face. “Before you say anything, I don’t mind. And I’m all ears to listen if you need, but I really just wanted to bring you something special.”

It’s not the worst to crouch down anymore, thank god, and Connor huffs in disbelief when he sees the caramels. He doesn’t let Connor look up at him like he’s given the damn moon and stars, like Connor is wont to do. He cups the back of Connor’s neck and presses a kiss to his hair, feeling the rumble of emotion under his lover’s skin. “It’s something you deserve. Like you deserve to feel happy.”

Connor’s already shoved a caramel in his mouth when he huffs sadly, “Thank you, my love.”

Hank’s heart melts a little bit. “That’s me.”

He tries to sit on the floor but Connor won’t allow it, so he relocates Hank to his fancy vintage chair. And Hank simply pulls Connor with him, arm around his tiny waist and still holding the platter of caramels. He offers another and Connor takes it with a sniffle. “I’m okay. I promise.”

“I believe you.” Hank tells him, smushed into the back of his neck. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Connor’s very quiet for a moment, finishing his candy, but his voice is worn when he speaks. “This is Richard’s letter about the deaths of our parents.”

Hank feels a cold sweat burst over his skin. Christ, that’s heavy. Hank’s been thankful enough not to go through that yet. He holds Connor tighter, “I’m here.”

“It took him a long time to get home with no identification.” Connor explains shakily, “Father was already gone, and evidently he’d had our mother in a hospital for a while beforehand. Ah… ‘ **I was nervous to go, but I learned I was on the list of approved visitors. When I entered her room… she was enamored to see me. Opened her arms to me like she couldn’t believe I was there, and she said how happy she was that I’d come to visit.** ’”

A weird weight settles in Hank’s stomach. He’s learned a good amount about Connor’s mother, about the kind of person she was. He squeezes Connor to encourage him to relay Richard’s words.

“ **I stayed with her a while, and soaked in her love with a mild amount of confusion. But I had been away for so long, it was a comfort. She was loving and attentive and it seemed that she was doing me a kindness not mentioning the last time we’d seen each other. We shared tears when I couldn’t hold them anymore. She easily got tired and I helped her settle in again, like she had for me so many nights as a child.** ” Connor reads on, turning pages as he goes.

“ **I made her tea in the small kitchen nearby her room. The nurses were happy I’d shown up. She woke just enough as I was tidying her room, and it was as though she wanted to shower me in motherly love again. She was overjoyed.** ” His voice has gone a little hollow, a little choked. “ **And she called me by your name.** ”

“Oh, no.” Hank whispers.

Connor shivers like it unnerves him to know this, but he still reads on. “ **She thought I was you. And that was the moment I realized she wasn’t being kind about my banishment. She did not remember it. She spoke of how much she loved you, how happy she was to see you, how beautiful you were. As if they hadn’t taken you away, too. My heart felt lost. Her moments of forgetfulness over the years… I thought on each of them while she stroked my hair the way you loved but was always too heavy-handed for me. She had become so frail, brother. When I left, it was as you.** ”

Hank lays his head against Connor’s shoulder, “I’m so sorry.”

He folds the letter and sits with it for a moment, shaking his head. “She was always so strong. Independent, full of will. She was a _force_ , Hank. And in the end… she lost so much. I don’t know if that’s a blessing or not, to forget the hardships.”

“I don’t know, honey… Did Richard ever go back to see her?” Because he wouldn’t blame Richard if he didn’t, after everything that happened.

“He did. He says he went back when he could, in between searching out the documents for inheritance. A good son until the very end… I don’t know if I’d been able to.”

“You’re not a bad person for that.” Hank tells him, his warmth both literal and figurative seeping into Connor’s tired bones.

“He makes me sad, Hank.” He sighs, opening the papers and sifting through them, “Listen. ‘ **I knew it was gone, then. Father had hidden the deed to our home, even though I am entitled to it, and mother can’t offer any answers. Everything has slipped through my fingers again. Forgive me, please. I thought it was finally time, when you could join the world again, and I have failed.** ’ He thought he _failed me_ , Hank. He asked for my forgiveness, for things that are not his fault.”

“I know.” Hank rubs along his back.

He feels the tightness in his throat, the unjust feeling of it all. “I only wish I could tell him.”

Hank presses a kiss to his shoulder, offering what touch he can. “I know. I wish you could too, honey. But it’s okay, you’re okay.”

“But was he?”

“You are, and that’s what he wanted. He wanted you to be okay, more than anything.” Hank tells him, reaching up to brush his cheek clean. “And you’re okay now.”

He says it like he’s reminding Connor that he really is okay.

And Connor takes a breath, and believes him.

“He never got the deed to the house. He never came home again, Hank.” He shuffles the pages uniformly and folds them again. “I wonder where he lived, what he did.”

“Maybe he fell in love. Got a different house, sat in the park as an old man and fed the ducks. A quiet, fulfilling, warm life.”

“A warm life.” Connor echoes with fondness. He nods softly, and leans into Hank’s kiss to his cheek.

Hank whispers into his skin, “You can have a warm life, too.”

He can almost believe Hank on that, too.

With the gentle breeze coming through the window, and the slow bubble of water from the old taps, Hank feels a serene state of mind overtake him. A little tired, he's letting the water shift from hot to a nice cool touch, so his muscles can relax. He’s feeling good. He might even take a nap before dinner, that would be luxurious. Maybe they’ll order in, pizza, and he can have a lazy night after a morning full of work. How nice.

He doesn’t hear the feet running across the old floorboards, but he does know when Connor skids into the room hard enough to topple over some thankfully unlit candles on their antique serving cart.

At least a bucket’s worth of water comes out of the tub when Hank’s heart nearly jumps out of his damn body. “Christ! Connor!”

“Richard got married!” Connor yells in astonishment. He’s waving a letter wildly in his hand, eyes so goddamn big.

The look of him is almost enough to completely shift Hank’s mood, “What?!”

“He got married! To the nurse!” He’s overjoyed to the point of giving himself anxiety. Hank is sitting up and reaching for a towel, so he finds a good place to put the letter before he stumbles to help. They sop up the water together, both of them catching their breath.

"You about gave me a heart attack." Hank gives him a little grin, smitten and amused. “But, Connor, that’s wonderful.”

“Sorry… There’s a photo. Do you want to see the photo?” He asks, eyes shining. He throws the towels in the laundry basket and retrieves the letter, picking up the heavily aged photo. “Allow me to present Richard and Chloe Stern.”

The photo has Richard in a tux, standing proudly with one hand behind his back, the other gently holding the hand of his wife. Chloe's sitting on a chair, her dress trailing beautifully and bouquets of flowers accenting the scene. Hank has been told about how long it took to set up photographs back then, why the majority of people didn’t smile, but through the grain and age, he can see Chloe is holding such a gentle, enamored smile. Hank knows from the history and just from knowing people, she’s in love.

“What a match.” He praises, looking up at Connor’s face. It’s like he can barely contain himself with all the pride and love trying to burst out of him.

“They’re very handsome.” Connor agrees, taking a look at it again himself. “We should celebrate, my love!”

“I agree.” Oh, he’s so smitten seeing Connor like this. “What do you think?”

“Champagne! Cake! Oh, Hank, I want cake.” Connor nods, tucking the letter close to his heart. “I’ll prepare it! You finish your bath. Put on your best loungewear, we’re going to dance!”

Hank watches him dash from the room, and calls out after him, “Slow down! Don’t you fall, old man!”

As if on cue, there’s a tumble of Connor hitting the floor and then quickly stumbling back up, “I am perfectly fine! I’ve got it!”

“God, you _damn_ old fool.” He realizes after he says it that he means the both of them.

Connor orders them a bottle of sparkling grape juice and slices of cake with buttercream icing, and Hank orders the pizza he wanted. Hank wears his fluffiest robe and Connor puts on Richard’s old striped pants, along with a billowing shirt that he leaves mostly open just like every cover of a steamy romance novel. Hank draws back the ruffled, already gaping collar to kiss Connor’s cool skin. They toast to the couple and dance to their records. Connor teaches Hank a slow dance where they mostly touch hands and it’s like the most reverent thing ever, the way Connor looks at him.

They eat pizza and kiss and Connor tells Hank some stories about Richard. Ones that Connor probably would've told at the tables of Richard’s reception, but Hank gets a few juicier ones because it’s only them. It’s funny learning about the party with the viscount where everyone realized how slippery their stockings were, and then fifteen drunk rich people proceeded to slide across a solid marble floor in their socks and tights. Also the thought of Connor, Mr. Legs-For-Days, in tights… He voices his thought and Connor teases he might dress up again one day, just for him.

Connor takes out the photo to show off again, and Hank tells him they could scan it and print a copy for a frame. Connor turns those doe eyes on him again, the damn moon and stars. Hank asks for another glass of sparkling juice mostly to get Connor to stop hovering while he scans the photo. He runs the copy through a colorizing service on a whim. He doesn’t know if the color on the bouquets is right, but who’s to say? He’s printing it on a photo card by the time Connor’s back, glasses in hand.

“Here it comes.” He motions at the printer as the bubbles in the flute pop against his mustache.

“Fascinating.” Connor hums around a slice of veggie pep. His expression softens when he sees the photo coming out in color. He sets everything down and wipes off his hands, picking it up with gentle fingers just as it finishes. “Oh, heaven’s gate…”

“I don’t know if it’s accurate, but—”

“It’s beautiful.” Connor tells him, full of awe and so much love. He grabs the frame they’ve set out, one of the antiques that wasn’t holding anything. “Will it make another for my bedroom?”

“As many as you want.” Hank promises, queuing up a second copy.

“And do you think Markus could…?”

Hank’s heart feels warm. A painting of it would look nice. “I could ask him. He’s been wanting to meet you, you know.”

“So charming.” Connor murmurs, sweet and distracted as he settles the photo into the frame. “Hank, thank you. This is marvelous.”

"Anything for you." Hank stands to press a kiss to his temple, head over heels for the way Connor leans into it.

"Anything?" He asks, that playful and hopeful lilt in his voice. "Would you dance with me again?"

"Another dance with a gentleman such as yourself?" Hank feels thirty years younger in his chest. "What am I supposed to read from that offer, Mr. Stern?"

"How much I love you." Connor tells him, not interested in teasingly making something up.

Hank holds him by the back of the head when he leans in to kiss him slow and deep.


	20. life and the ones who live them

Over the next week, Connor bounds around the house with more and more of Richard's news. The impressions of the neighbors with the update that Richard and Chloe had bought a house. The pride of Richard standing in their kitchen with a perfected loaf of bread. He finally got it right.

“They planted flowers in my honor!” Connor yells through the door while Hank’s in the shower on Tuesday.

“Richard took more piano lessons! Evidently Chloe tells him he is gaining mastery!” He informs with pride over dinner on Wednesday.

“They’re going to have a baby.” He says quietly during his transfusion on Thursday, unshed tears of joy in his eyes.

On Friday, Connor naps on the couch after working most of the night on his backyard project. Hank is repeatedly smoothing his hair per request, while eating the remains of his brunch from an antique tray. Connor’s drifting somewhere half awake, in simple bliss from the touch of his lover and the soft buzz of the television that he’s gotten comfortable with.

They're catching up on the new season of Hank's favorite show, some fantasy dice thing Connor only really follows along with when there's character development. He's happy to listen to the voices without really hearing the words, soaking in the rest. He hears Sumo mosey on over and hop up to lay in Hank’s chair, and it’s all perfect.

Hank’s phone gently buzzes on his leg and he’s almost reluctant to even answer it, it feels so easy to just let it be. But Connor presses more into his opposite thigh with a little sigh, so he decides to just answer it.

It’s the bank. Ah, hell.

He flicks the screen and brings his phone to his ear, “Morning, Annika.”

“Hank.” she greets, with the exact tone he thought she’d be carrying.

“You’re not about to tell me what I’m thinking.”

She snorts softly on the other end of the line, “I am.”

“We’ll be there.” Hank tells her with a fair amount of acceptance on whatever ridiculousness awaits them this time. He takes a long moment after they hang up before he gently tugs on Connor’s ear. “Hey, flower bud. You wanna take a trip to the bank today?”

“You’re kidding.” Connor rumbles, pulling Hank’s hand away from his ear and over his eyes instead.

“Afraid not. It seems there’s more your brother has to say.”

Within the next hour, they’re settling themselves in front of another box. It’s newer than the others, with more letters inside. Connor’s excited this time, grabbing the first one in the bunch and opening up. “I hope there’s news on the baby.”

It’s a hefty letter, and Connor’s looking pale but so alive as he reads it over. It seems to be a bunch of smaller letters, made over many months, even with different papers and pen inks. Over the entirety of Chloe’s pregnancy, Richard has left updates for Connor. The praise Richard sings of his beautiful wife, the challenges they face, along with facts and stories. On the last page, Connor reads proudly from the last paragraph.

“ **Brother, I am overjoyed to announce that I am the father of one beautiful son. We’ve named him Beaumont Stern, and he seems as though from heaven itself. Chloe is radiant and well. I’m writing this to you,** **_uncle_** **, while I watch them sleep. I may be exhausted, but I am too in love to take my eyes off them.** ”

He looks up at Hank with such adoration, “I have a nephew, Hank. A healthy baby.”

Hank’s so happy for them all. “Congratulations, Connor. That’s some good news.”

“Such joy…” Connor coos, looking fondly at the letter like it’s gold, even with its different inks and coffee stain no doubt from Richard chugging it down to stay awake during the many hours of caretaking. He pulls Hank into a hug, squeezing him tight before dipping back into the box. There are more letters he’s trying to keep track of, but what he raises up for inspection isn’t. “Hank, what is this box?”

He passes it back and Hank is fucking surprised. He hasn’t seen one of these in _years_ “I’ll be damned. It’s a VHS.”

Connor squints at him, still not understanding. Which, y’know, of course. Connor knows about wifi and digital downloads. Hank skipped a bit after equating the gramophone to a record player, and then to the new age ‘everything at your fingertips’.

“Something like… ah, film. Like for photos?” He slips the tape from the sleeve and looks it over, wonders if after all these years it’ll play. If there’s anything that’ll play it… He gets up from his seat and rounds the table, “Gimme a sec, I’ll be back with it.”

Connor’s fine with it being in Hank’s hands. “Okay…”

Hank goes down the hall just a bit, where Annika’s nearby with coffee. He raises the tape. “You guys got a VHS player in storage, too?”

Even though she isn’t told specifically what’s in the boxes, she has an idea and is always a bit blown away that _anything_ is really in them. Hank personally thinks she’s a little suspicious, but too captured by the history and mystery of it all. And just as planned, she jumps at the chance to pull information like teeth, questioning Hank about what it could be while she pulls the ancient cart with a TV and assorted video players from a closet.

“We usually use these for wills.” she says, wheeling it to the room with him. “Oh god, you didn’t find Richard Stern’s will, did you?”

Hank didn’t fucking think about that. He shakes his head, trying to prepare for whatever this is. “God, I hope not.”

Connor watches them wheel everything in, spine going straight seeing a TV. “What… is going on?”

Annika plugs things in, and looks like she wants to stay. But she goes to the door and before she leaves, gives a professional, “Let me know if you need anything.”

Hank switches on the television and gives a little prayer. “It’s old, so I don’t know how well it’ll work… but this is a machine that can play the tape.”

“He left me tapes to be looked at?” Connor peers over the table to watch what Hank’s doing.

Hank slots the tape in and listens to the spinning noises that spark his childhood nostalgia. There’s a lot of static, the old tape player trying its heart out to calibrate and keep from skipping. Hank has to do a little bit of manual tuning, but the image it gives is a wooden panel wall and a vintage green couch.

“A photo?” Connor perks up, delight weaving into his words.

The feeling that overtakes the room is charged when Richard appears on screen. He’s quite a bit older, and he settles onto the couch with something of an excited smile. Connor squints at the screen and then bursts from his seat, the chair scraping backwards.

“Connor.” Richard says, and his voice is different than Hank thought it would be. Deeper than Connor’s, but clearer. He reaches up to adjust the camera, and Hank can just hear how big the damn thing is as it’s moved.

“Richard.” Connor whispers, shocked beyond all measure. Seeing his brother smile and move— seeing him alive and well, it’s… more than Connor ever thought he would see again.

“This is a new, exciting technology! It’s putting me on a strip of film, in a self-contained housing. Just for you.” Richard explains, then softens. Connor reaches out towards the screen as he rounds the table. “How I’ve missed you. The world is ever-changing, but I can assure you the sun still sets like it used to. The stars still come out… though there’s a lot more lights in the city.”

“Oh…” Connor whispers, crouched in front of the cart, eyes so big. His hand touches the screen, the crackles of it against his skin. “Oh, my baby brother… Look how you’ve aged. Look at you…”

“He’s different than I thought.” Hank says, bringing around Connor’s chair so he can sit closer to the screen. Connor reaches for it blindly and says a small thank you, then grabs Hank’s hand to keep him close. As if Hank would want to be anywhere else.

“But that’s good, isn’t it? It feels like an introduction… Hank, this is Richard.” Connor preens, but quiets down the moment his brother continues to speak. Hank drops a kiss to the top of his head.

“I know I’ve been writing you these letters over the years, it’s been a way of… keeping you, I suppose. Oh, see, when I get like this it’s so much easier just to not write it down.” Richard chuckles to himself, scrubbing a hand over his face. “But I wanted this! I wanted to speak to you, _really_ speak with you. I—” There’s a noise beyond the camera, a bit of an unintelligible voice. Richard looks off-camera with a very happy grin, “I’m making something for Connor.”

It’s a feminine voice, gentle. “Oh! Tell him I said hi, dear.”

Connor looks on in awe hearing his name said by family again.

Richard nods, and there’s the sound of a door shutting. “That was Chloe, she says hello. She’s very good about indulging me in all my whims… She’s so good to me, brother. I’m so in love.”

He shows the camera his wedding ring, simple with a little stone in the middle. It looks like it never leaves his hand. Connor’s shoulders shudder a little, and Hank silently passes him a tissue. Connor clings to Hank’s hand on his shoulder, leaning his head close. “He’s so old… Still so vibrant.”

Richard has such a big smile, one where it kind of bursts out on a face that could otherwise be so stoic. Like the painting at home. “I don’t really know what to say. Or dive into… I could tell you about my day! Oh! My new sculpture. I know you’ll enjoy that, you always did… Or you always let me believe you did. Maybe you’ll indulge me again…”

“He’s here, Hank… He’s really here. He made it.” Connor gestures to the screen before he has to wipe his eyes again.

Hank leans down to wrap him in a one armed hug, pressing a comforting kiss to his neck. “Warm life.”

Connor chuckles softly, “Yes, a warm life. You were right.”

They watch the rest of the video, where Richard runs at the mouth a little about all manner of things. It’s endearing and Connor listens happily. He loves simply seeing his brother. There are more, the whole back end is full of them. Hank pulls up his phone to put a rush order in on an old tape player. Connor collects everything with so much more joy than previous times, almost eager to get home and celebrate anything more Richard has to tell them.

During the evening, Connor takes his nightly break to go out and work on his backyard project. Hank’s having a warm glass of apple cider before bed when Connor comes back in, sleeves rolled up and that old wood axe over his shoulder. He looks proud of himself and Hank likes the look of it on him.

“Mr. Anderson…” he says, with that confident lopsided grin and hand on his hip. “Would you accompany me to the backyard? Just a few moments of your time.”

“Oh, Mr. Stern. How could I resist?” Hank sets down the remote and takes his cider with him when he follows Connor outside. As he nears the back door, the light smell of smoke becomes present, and the project that’s always hidden by sheet and tarp is uncovered.

“What do you think?” Connor bounds across the grass in his bare feet, such a spring in his step. He spreads an arm out to his creation, and Hank gets all soft seeing a little brick pizza oven sitting in a prime spot in their backyard. There’s a small fire already going, and Connor has set two of the antique chairs nearby. It looks cozy.

“Oh, Connor. You did all this?” Hank loves this. He loves every aspect of it. That Connor made something for them, and made something with his own two hands. There’s even an empty barrel and dowel that has the remnants of mixed cement. “God, you did all of this by hand…”

“I very much did.” He beams. Hank comes over closer with awe written all over his handsome features, and he feels the low hum of satisfaction build in his throat. “Take a seat, Hank.”

“Don’t mind if I do.” Hank runs his hand along the brick, admiring the craftsmanship first. “Connor, this is incredible. This is _amazing_ work.”

He turns to see and shower Connor in praise and compliments, but shuts right up when he watches his lover prop another piece of firewood on the old stump at the edge of the trees, and proceeds to look like Hank’s secret strong man fantasies as he expertly swings the axe down.

“Thank you, Hank.” Connor smiles while he grabs another log to split. He looks at Hank like he can read his thoughts. “That’s high praise.”

Hank settles into one of the chairs with a little huff, staring shamelessly at Connor chopping firewood. “Ah… Well, you deserve it.”

“Hm. What else do I deserve?” Connor brings the axe down again and lingers with his arms flexed. “Would you like me to undress? You look so… taken.”

“I don’t look that way.” Hank grumbles, hiding a smile in his cider. He may be head over heels, but he won’t make it that easy for Connor to get a rise out of him.

Connor leaves the axe in the stump and comes over with the firewood tucked against his side. He leans down to push his nose at Hank’s cheek, “You look _pleased_ , and _very_ attractive.”

“Well—” he cuts himself off, enjoying the compliment too much, the sound of Connor’s voice when he gets all flirty like this.

“Well, well.” Connor grins, landing a kiss to his cheek. He settles the logs into the fire with care, and gently agitates it with an old iron poker taken from the house. “But you really like the oven?”

“I do. It’s perfect, Con.” He promises, running his fingers through Connor’s hair when he sits against his leg.

“I want to make you pizza. Fresh mozzarella, olive oil…” Connor muses. He’s obviously been thinking about it, just looking at the scene he’s set up.

“It’s a little late in the evening for pizza.” He reasons with a soft chuckle. If Connor really wanted it though, he’d be sitting his ass down and enjoying the pie creation experience.

“Tomorrow, I’ve planned. I just wanted to warm the bricks.” Connor lays his head on Hank’s knee, grinning up at him.

“We could be making s’mores with a nice fire like that.” He remarks and offers some of his apple cider.

Connor hums as he drinks, feeling the gentle heat through the glass mug. “The melty chocolate…”

They meet eyes, and a dual smile spreads.

Slated to eat old fashioned pizza tomorrow, they go ahead and have celebratory s’mores on the first fire in their new oven.

If the first round of happy letters didn’t infuse Connor with love and life in abundance, the next pile really does it. He makes the announcement that he’ll read one every day, and he doesn’t always follow his own rule, because sometimes things are too exciting. He tells Hank about all the technology Richard talks about, and their trips to Paris to visit Chloe’s family. There’s talk of them moving there, staying, but there’s no definite answer.

“He’s graduated from bread to soft pretzels.” he says while sitting on the kitchen counter, Hank making Cole’s favorite brown butter cookies for when he visits.

While they’re waiting for their pizza to cook, “Oh! Hank, Chloe is going to have another baby!”

“How long has it been since little Monty?” Hank’s taken to calling the littlest Stern a nickname, because they hear Richard gush so much about his family.

“A few years, I’m thinking. They aren’t always dated.” Connor explains, “Can you imagine? Another nephew? A niece?”

Two days later, Connor comes in for bed with his nose buried in another letter. “A nephew! Charles Stern. There’s a photo of them both!”

It’s a photo of two very serious looking children. Ah, they’re definitely Richard’s. Chloe likes to embroider their clothes.

Hank relates a lot to the letters, especially the ones where Richard talks about how the children won’t eat certain foods and it kills him daily, or while Connor’s gasping about Beaumont’s first broken bone, Hank’s sputtering with laughter over the story of how it happened.

In one of the letters, there’s a separate slip of paper tucked in with Richard’s letter. It’s from Chloe. Connor, teary-eyed for the first time in a while with these, reads an excerpt. “ **I know I’ve never met you, and maybe many people wouldn’t believe the things my husband says about you. But I want you to know that you are family. I’ve taken you into my heart as my brother too, and I believe him. I believe you. If you really ever do read this someday, that is what I want you to know.** ”

“She’s a good one, bud.” Hank smiles as he tugs Connor to his chest, to let him cry over the acceptance. Hank’s former in-laws never wrote him a heartfelt letter. It’s pretty sweet.

“It’s nice,” Connor’s blubbering, he knows he’s doing it. It’s fine for tonight, he’s earned a good cry. “It’s nice, to have a sister.”

Hank squeezes him closer.

In the next few days, it rains. It’s a little warmer, and they go out every day that it rains. To the farmer’s market, the pet store— where Sumo is delighted that he gets a new toy, and two other markets before the two old men start getting tired. Sumo’s learned Hank’s signs very well, and makes them consider going home. They listen, though Connor stays outside a bit to soak in the day, and Hank has a towel waiting for him when he comes back in.

Connor reads another letter before dinner, and jumps from his seat with news, “I have a niece!”

“What? _Another_ baby?” Hank sputters, almost spilling his glass of milk.

“No, not at all!” he explains, flipping back a page. “Richard’s telling me that Beaumont has confided in him, and that she would rather be his daughter.”

“Ah! And he’s… taking that well?” Hank thinks Richard sees the stars in his family, but it’s still something he feels he has to ask.

Connor gives him an odd look, and gestures to the page before he reads. “ **The joy I feel. A daughter, can you imagine? I’m taking her first thing tomorrow to buy the dress she’s been coveting in the shop window, I’ve been told the specific one. She’s kept this knowledge with her for over a year… I’m so proud, and thankful. My child trusts me, Connor. She truly trusts me. Imagine if we’d felt that way with father? Imagine if we could have gone to him for anything. I am blessed to be a worthy father.** ”

Hank feels that in his gut. Blessed to be a worthy father. Worthy of the trust and love of his child. “I shoulda known.”

“Maybe I don’t understand.” Connor says, laying down the letter to give Hank his attention. “Your hesitance, I mean.”

“Historically, people… don’t like people who are different.” He tries to explain, “It’s an old anxiety, bud. I didn’t mean to insinuate Richard would be like that, especially knowing him like I do.”

Connor gives him a smile, the one where he thinks Hank’s being silly. “It’s alright… I’ve seen much prejudice and hate, Hank. You know some of it I’ve seen first hand. I’ve known plenty of people like Beaumont, Richard and I had friends. We _did_ have friends, you know.”

Hank gives him a look and Connor chuckles. “You gotta tease me even when you’re making me learn, huh?”

“Always, just a little.” He grins. “It’s not about history, Hank. It’s about being a decent person.”

“Ain’t that the truth.” Hank sighs. He comes over to peer at the letter, “So, how’s it feel having a niece and nephew, flower bud?”

“I think Richard said it best.” he says, “The joy I feel… You know, I had more work with corsets and gowns. I bet Richard wished he had my expertise then! Oh, I do hope he learned…”

“I have a feeling he did.” Hank reasons with warmth in his heart.


	21. to the forest of free men, part of my soul

Hank puts on his swim shorts maybe an hour before sunset. He stuffs a backpack with towels and Connor’s shawl. Makes his way down the stairs to where Connor is sitting in the conservatory, basking in the late sun through the window film. He looks so calm, spread out in a sunbleached chair. He probably heard Hank coming but he hasn’t turned his attention yet.

He throws a pair of shorts Connor’s way and they land on his chest. Brows raised, Connor picks the garment from his body. “Oh, my love… Is this an invitation to be less dressed?”

“It sure is.” he gives Connor a grin, adjusting his backpack, “I thought maybe tonight would be a good night to go find that lake you loved to swim in.”

“Really?” Connor perks up at that, twisting in his chair.

He tucks his thumb into the waistband and snaps it back, “If you still remember the way there.”

A smile as sweet as sugar graces Connor’s face.

It’s great to see Connor move through the forest with such familiarity. Hank and Sumo follow him, listening to his directions on where to step. The setting sun filters through the dense trees, the whole forest is washed in a brushstroke of gold. Connor looks over his shoulder to see Hank in the streaks of light and feels himself fall in love all over again.

Hank almost bumps into him when he realizes Connor’s stopped in his tracks. “What’s wrong?”

He reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind Hank’s ear, “Nothing at all.”

When they reach the lake, it’s just as Connor remembers. The large rocks and inviting water, ground barren from animals eating all the fresh surrounding grass. The sunset is blooming the sky purple and pink, glittering over the water. The connecting stream bubbles softly nearby, and Connor leads Hank by the hand onto a flat rock.

“Ah, Connor, this is great.” Hank surveys the area, keeping an eye on Sumo who’s trying to keep chill but really wants to go apeshit. He signs that he can play, and Sumo woofs and skids into a pile of leaves nearby.

“Isn’t it just?” Connor tips his hat off his head and reaches to the high neckline of his sweatshirt.

Hank hums and crouches to set his backpack down, sifting through it for Connor’s shorts. “I bet the water’s gonna be nice. It’s an ideal spot out here, too.”

When he turns, Connor’s stripped down completely, and gives Hank a bright smile before he simply jumps in. He snorts and stands up, waving those damn little shorts. “You frisky old thing! Shouldn’t have even brought these!”

Connor shakes his hair out and laughs, leaning back to float. Body on full display, he peers up at Hank. “I never put a barrier between myself and the water.”

“You always skinny dipped?”

“There’s no one around.” He kicks lazily, it feels invigorating to be here again. “I would swim and then lay on that rock to dry. Enjoy the moonlight.”

Connor’s looking at him like he’s waiting for something. And Hank flushes, before he grabs for the hem of his shirt. “Oh, I guess you’re right about that.”

“Yes, Hank. Let me lure you in!” He yells excitedly, whistling when Hank pulls at the ties of his swim shorts too.

“Like a damn siren.” Hank murmurs to himself, coming down off the rock and around to the water’s edge. His shorts come off and he tosses them back towards his pack, very aware of Connor’s eyes on him. It puts a little spring in his step, makes him grin as he wades into the water and his lover is there reaching out for him.

He dips his hand under Connor’s head and leans into those grabby hands, right into a captivating kiss. Maybe this is a wish he’s fulfilling for Connor, like kissing in the rain. If the way he hums and melts into the embrace is anything to go by. He tethers him in closer, caressing his face and down his neck. And Connor’s arm wraps around his shoulders, words against his mouth with joy. “Have I told you I love you today?”

“Go on and tell me again.” he whispers, kissing that little dip in Connor’s fuzzy chin. He’s refusing to shave after so long of having nothing, and it’s such a hot look it’s killing Hank daily.

Connor gazes at him with those dark eyes, the reflection of sunset in them, and his wet fingers caressing a patch of freckles on Hank’s shoulder. “Hank Anderson. My Hank Anderson… I love you more than the sun and moon.”

“Good thing you don’t need to choose.” he says, rubbing that spot Connor likes behind his ear.

“You would never make me.” Connor hums.

Hank nods, dipping down into the water and kissing his jaw. “God, I _love_ you.”

They swim until well after the sun sets. The moon is bright enough for Hank to see, and Connor and Sumo see fine enough in low light. Sumo even joins them, doggy-paddling to one end, jumping out and then jumping back in to do it again on the other side. Connor swims well, and when Hank’s taking a break on his legs, he watches how graceful he is. When he starts to get cold, he huddles up to Hank and they float together until they’ve got enough energy for the trip back. There’s a good night’s sleep waiting for them. Or at least Hank. Connor’s schedule is a little different.

“I’ll still get into bed with you.” Connor promises as he leads the way for Hank, holding him at the elbow so he doesn’t trip.

“Will you put on that pretty nightgown? The silky one?” Hank asks, letting his phone light the ground at his feet. It’s amazing to see Connor walk and shift his gaze as if there’s still regular light.

Connor smiles, squeezing his arm. “You like feeling it when we sleep.”

“Nothin’ wrong with a little softness.” Hank says, moving to the side when Connor directs him.

“You know,” he coos, twisting to kiss Hank’s cheek as they’re stepping into their backyard, “You can get one, too. Wear it to bed with me.”

Hank snorts like that’s funny, but then he starts thinking about it. He honestly… could do that. They could just order one, leave him lots of legroom and comfy all night. “Huh. Never thought I could, honestly.”

“I think every person should have a nightgown, Hank.”

“That’s very Victorian dandy of you, flower bud.” Hank grins.

“That doesn’t mean I’m wrong!”

Hank thinks he knows what he’ll be looking for in the next few days, because Connor is absolutely right. He stops them before the porch and grabs him around the waist, in only that vintage shawl, and proceeds to kiss him stupid.

When they shuffle into bed, he gets Connor’s cool weight on him in that nightgown, holding him like some pinned little spoon. He thinks about how good it feels, that Connor’s hand wiggles around until they’re holding hands, pressed against Hank’s chest. It’s not a revelation by any means, but he feels so cared for. So content. When he whispers it into the dark, he gets the same whispered back in a kiss against his shoulder.

Connor gets through the letters with ease, maybe faster than he thinks he should in the end. Because over the writings of Richard's adventures in life, his joys and mishaps and the love he sees with, Connor knew this was coming. On a beautiful, rainy Saturday afternoon, Connor reads Richard's goodbye. Written on high quality paper with a shaky hand, Connor sits on the edge of his seat as he reads.

" **Dear brother. I have lived a life. Even now, I am comfortable. Surrounded by family. It's funny, that I get to see them all. I owe that to you. I've always owed that to you. And I wish you could see it. You were supposed to. I still believe one day you'll get to.**

**This is my last letter, and yes to be dramatic I'm writing it on my deathbed. Don't worry, it's very comfortable. I am comfortable.**

**Connor, I am also 153 years old. We both know the ages men died in our time. We both know 82 was pushing it, but I was busy! And we both know that it was you. Taking my aches all those years ago when all you really needed to do was eat. You don't know how thankful I am that you didn't let me talk you out of soothing me. How thankful I am for all you've let me see. I love you with every ounce of my heart, and while I know this is goodbye, I wish I could just keep going. I have so many stories… I'll try to remember them for you.**

**To the forest of free men, part of my soul. Your brother, Richard.** "

Connor sits for a long time, like a statue. Like he's trying desperately to process. Sumo looks at him with round, knowing eyes and Hank… Hank can't say anything.

"I've known he was gone." Connor says, quietly, and it's like the house absorbs his words. "I've known. I… I am so proud of his life. So proud of him… and god, this…"

Hank settles a hand on his knee and squeezes. He relaxes an inch.

"Hank, I'm not going to cry." he declares even as tears build in his eyes, "I'm not, I swear."

"Honey." Hank opens his arms, still in a mild state of bewilderment. Because of course he fucking is, there’s a heaping handful of information left there. "It's okay."

"Quite. It absolutely is. It's… yes, of course…" Connor agrees just before he starts to sob softly into Hank's shirt.

"I love you." He whispers, because that's the only thing he can think to say. The only thing that matters to say at this exact moment.

"And I, you. More and more and…" Connor murmurs, pressing the words against his chest. Hank can feel the light twinge of Connor's emotions crawling up his arms— the emptiness of loss, an overwhelmed heart, the love so deep in his chest it's made of diamond. And the tiredness. He’s so damn tired from the continuous rush of emotions, even if some of those emotions were good and wonderful.

Sumo leaves the room and they hear him go upstairs, then after a long moment, they hear him coming back very slowly. He enters the room with one of Connor’s fluffy comforters trailing behind him, and Connor stands up with an overwhelmed sob, opening his arms.

It delights Sumo, really, so he rises to his full height for a hug. Connor supports him and sniffles against his fur, “You are a very good boy. A very good boy.”

Sumo looks at Hank with a clear ‘I’ve done a good job!’ smile, and he signs the affirmative. Connor gently lets him down, petting the softest parts of his floppy ears and trying his best not to keep crying. Hank rubs over his back with the motions he’s learned are most soothing. “Hank, can I give him peanut butter carrots?”

“Of course you can, sweetheart.” Hank promises. They migrate to the kitchen, Connor rubbing his eyes free of tears. He has someone else to focus on now, it seems easier for him to stow his own upset away if there’s someone else to care for. So he lets Connor make the snack and sit on the kitchen floor to treat the dog.

Connor devotes his attention, quietly and calmly, letting Sumo slobber all over his hand. But he looks up at Hank nearing the end, sitting in a kitchen chair, and says quietly, “153 years old.”

Hank desperately has been waiting for those words, tthankful to know he hadn’t misheard. “Yeah.”

“Because of me.” he whispers, bringing his free hand up and pressing his thumb under his momentarily blunt canines. “Because of my teeth.”

“Because you gave back to him for what you took.” Hank nods, wringing his hands. “Connor…”

“I’ve been doing that with you.” he says, obviously. “And more.”

“And he lived to be 153.”

“I was discovered less than a year after my change, and Richard’s life was extended… three times in that amount of months…”

Hank swallows a bit hard and steadies himself with a deep breath before he gently drops the words. “Cole says my body’s doing things it shouldn’t.”

Connor looks at him with alarm, “What do you mean? You’re not… your heart, it isn’t—”

“No, it’s not bad.” He waves a disarming hand. Connor can see he looks a little guilty. “I didn’t… I didn’t really know how to tell you. Part of me didn’t want to.”

“Why not? Is it the same as Richard?” Connor sits up on his knees. Sumo licks the last of the peanut butter from his palm and shuffles over to his water bowl. “Isn’t it helping you?”

“It is… I think it is. It’s good, I feel _good_. I feel better than ever.” he sighs. “But I didn’t want you to feel you owed me.”

Connor looks at him sadly, “Hank…”

“No, I mean it.” He stands and makes himself pace, there’s some nervous energy weaving into his muscles. “If you suddenly had stopped wanting to share with me, just to numb me up and take what you need, for whatever reason. I didn’t want you to hesitate, because when you’re there with me, you’re in charge. I’m just there! I’m happy with whatever as long as you’re getting what you need to keep going.”

Oh, Connor didn’t think he’d be tearing up again today. But here he is. “You don’t know how much that touches my heart, Hank. But I think about you every time.”

“But—”

“No. No, you need to hear this.” He stands, looking Hank over as if making sure of something - assessing him. Seeing how well he is. “I think of you every time— before, during, and _especially_ after. Because what you give me is _you_ , and it is a gift. You give yourself to me in so many ways, Hank. How could I not think of you?”

“But if you didn’t want to—”

“Then I wouldn’t be doing it at all.” He says it firmly. And he means it. “You let me share something vital, and that makes me always want to. Every time.”

The breath Hank takes shudders a little bit while he inhales. He finds himself nodding because he doesn’t have the words.

Connor fidgets so minutely, nervously, Hank is probably the only one alive who could catch it. “And if you didn’t want to. If you suddenly stopped wanting me to—”

“Hey. No.” He quickly crosses those few steps to squeeze Connor at the shoulders, “No, I wouldn’t want to stop. Even though you could do it without me now, with the bags. Not unless there was something wrong with me that could hurt you. Knowing it helps you, that it keeps you feeling good, that it _keeps you_ …”

 _Keeps you healthy for the first time in years. Keeps you around to be you. Keeps you alive and in this world._ Hank feels it with everything he has and for a moment, it hurts to have the knowledge someone didn’t want that. “I get to see the way you’ve gotten so much better. I never want you to be the way I found you, ever again.”

“I don’t want to be that way again, either.” Connor whispers, some of his voice leaving him.

Hank cradles his cheek, “You’re in charge. You’re always in charge.”

“It’s shared, Hank. Just as the way we love one another.” he promises. He may steer the ship every time he sinks his teeth in, but Hank is with him in the most precious and important capacity. “And I didn’t know this could happen. I didn’t know I could cause change on a scale like I have, and if that’s not okay with you—”

Hank envelops him in a hug, pulling him right in close against his body and the kitchen island. “Connor, you’re giving me a second chance at life. In so many ways. I don’t hurt like I used to. And I can’t start to think about the longevity of it the way Richard’s saying, that’s— that’s beyond me right now, I can’t. All I know is that my son isn’t constantly sad for my health, that I can breathe and move and live easier, and that I am so in love with you I feel like I’ve known you forever and also like it’s all brand new again.”

Connor opens his mouth but all that comes out is a harsh breath. Hank holds his face between those big, gentle palms. Settles their foreheads together, then looks him in the eye when he speaks because it’s too important not to. “And not because of what you give me when you need to survive. Because of your smile, and the way you laugh with your whole damn body, how you take those naps so you can stay around us, and because you think wifi is the greatest technological marvel in 200 years.”

A euphoric, watery laugh bursts from Connor’s mouth. He wraps his arm around Hank’s shoulders, making sure he doesn’t go anywhere and Hank rubs his cheek, “Okay?”

“Yes.” Connor whispers shakily, nodding enthusiastically. Hank tucks back into his neck to squeeze him in another hug. He’s happy for the tether, he feels as though he could melt to the floor. “Yes. Yeah, okay.”

They stand there in the kitchen, holding each other, resting against the counter. One of Connor’s arms hangs by his side because Sumo’s slobber is still all over him. It still hasn’t fully sunken in, Richard’s letter and the implications, the threads it pulls, Hank’s improvement… It will soon, probably in the night and will make him want to build another damn brick oven. But he’s content to have the knowledge he does, and will find a way to celebrate Richard’s life even though he is gone, and celebrate his own, and the prolonged wellness he may have given Hank.


	22. promises carried and kept

In the dead of night, Hank wakes to the sound of smashing glass. Connor is curled up beside him, and Sumo lifts his head because he's heard it, too. Hank signs for him to stay, Connor's half curled around the big lug as it is. He pulls himself out of bed and makes it to the door before he stops cold.

There are hushed voices. And there are footsteps, as the front door swings open. Hank would know the creak of it anywhere.

His body coils tight with tension and his fight or flight starts to kick in. He sincerely discarded the thought that someone would break into _this_ house. This creepy fucking old house. Nevertheless, he's quickly and quietly opening his drawer, and getting his gun from the lockbox.

He can't make out what the voices are saying as he loads the old revolver one bullet after the other, but there's more than one. He tells Sumo to stay alert but _quiet_ , when the dog barely starts up a danger growl. Oh, how he wishes more than ever that he doesn't hit that one floorboard that squeaks to high hell.

They've migrated out of the foyer when Hank gets into the hallway, but the front door is left wide open, the glass from the antique window scattered across the floor. That'll be a bitch to fix.

Hank takes the stairs very tactically, he knows by heart where to step quietly here. He checks his corners in the foyer, and dips into the living room. He hates the silence and it's really gonna come to a head anyway, so he speaks into the dark. "Don't know why you broke into my house. Ruined a one of a kind stained-glass window. You should know I’m old and retired and just plain tired—"

There's a shuffle and Hank swiftly turns in its direction.

"But I do have a gun."

A mad dash of footsteps head back to the foyer, and Hank hustles to make it there too. The moment he turns the corner, he sees two figures cloaked in shadow and the double barrel of a shotgun.

The feminine voice holding the gun raises it up higher, "So do I."

Hank weighs his options in the mere seconds he has. He could call for Sumo. He could call for Connor. He could try and reason with these people. The last option weighs heavy in his hands, but he doesn't consider it yet. He opens his mouth for _something_ , but the woman speaks up first.

"We don't want to hurt you." she says, slowly stepping in front of the other figure. "We just want what's in the basement."

Hank's stance doesn't change, but it does catch him off guard. "What?"

"That's all we want, and you’re not gonna try anything. Understood?"

The moon crawls out from behind the clouds and gives the room more light through the open door. She's an older woman, maybe Hank's age, graying hair tied back and holding that gun like she means it. The man behind her is significantly younger, just skirting his twenties… holy shit.

"Hey, I know you." Hank juts his chin at him, watching him quake with a little fear but not break. "From the fuckin' town office…"

The woman jerks the shotgun at Hank, “We’re here to get what we want. Move into the next room."

"Beau! From the archives office. Where the fuck did you get my address?" Hank presses, trying to piece it together. He didn't even give the kid his fucking name.

"You asked about the Sterns." Beau pipes up and to his credit his voice doesn't waver. "You said you were with the DPD. It didn't take much to find your photo plastered everywhere."

"And that you won an auction for this house." The woman snaps, finger on the trigger. Hank can see for all she's aggressive, she's scared. But she's determined. And that can be dangerous.

"Yeah, it's my fucking house." He snaps right back. His and Connor's.

"It doesn't belong to you! And neither does what's in the basement!" she yells.

"Lady, please put your gun down. I'm not playing around!" Hank warns, spiraling through everything actually in the basement. Nothing important is in there. Books? The wines, maybe? The only important thing he can think of isn't even in there anymore.

"I'm not playing either, mister!" she promises, their voices rising. "I'm getting what I came for! I promised!"

"What did you come here for?!" Hank yells back, pleading.

They're both so loud they don't hear the creak of the floorboards. "Hank?"

Connor. Hank looks up to see him on the top step, draped in his robe, becoming more alert by the second. That's when Hank's heart really starts pounding. Connor's too far away to protect.

"Should I have arrived with a gun as well?" Connor asks as he switches on the chandelier, before he raises his hands. It's a thin attempt to not seem so frightened.

The woman gasps as light floods the room. Her eyes become glued to Connor. And Connor must read something Hank doesn't, because he starts coming down the stairs. Hank keeps his gun trained on their intruders, stepping a little closer, "Ma'am, I'm gonna need you to hand me the gun."

"Grandma." Beau whispers, voice caught anxiously.

Her next words stop both Hank and Connor in their tracks. "That's not possible… You look so much like him."

"Ma'am, the gun." Hank says again, like he's been slapped in the face.

"Him?" Connor comes down the stairs more rapidly and it makes Hank fucking nervous. "Who?"

She gets spooked as Hank steps closer. She's backing up and lifting the shotgun fully back on Hank with one hand. The other is protecting Beau. And Connor, stupid beautiful Connor, steps in front of Hank like he's doing the same.

"Who do I look like?" Connor asks again, his hands held out to placate the two of them. The fear reads clear now, off guard and real. He takes a gentle step forward and Hank wishes to yank him back. "It's alright."

"Connor." Hank warns, heart in his fucking throat.

"It's alright." Connor says, softer. He's only looking at her. Slowly reaching for the shotgun and she's letting him. "It's alright. You can tell me."

She reaches up to touch Connor's face like she's making sure he's real. Connor's hand maneuvers her finger off the trigger and hands it backwards to Hank.

"Fucking christ. Who the _hell_ are you people?" Hank takes it and steps back, happy that Connor follows. He squints at them accusingly, " _Beau_ , from the archives office."

"Beaumont Wilt." Beau speaks up, holding the old woman protectively at the shoulders. "I was named after my great-grandmother, Beaumont Stern."

Connor stops moving.

It's like the whole world stops moving. The only reminder that it hasn't is the jingle of Sumo's tags as he watches from the top of the stairs, very alert.

"Did you say Stern?" Hank has to ask for it again.

"Beau came home and said men had come asking about our family. Not about the company, the _family_. Bartholomew, Amanda, the children." The woman explains, voice curved around a choked throat. "Took more interest than normal folk. And we dug. Finding your name in public record, and on the deed I'd been looking for, for _years_."

"'Our family'?" Connor's voice is small, venturing. Hopeful.

She looks at him with disbelieving stars in her eyes. "My name is Cassandra Wilt… my grandfather was Richard Stern."

Connor feels something inside him light up. He's too small a body to hold everything he feels welling up. He looks at this woman anew, the lines of her face, her wrinkles, the blue of her eyes. When he reaches out, she lets him. "Richard had children. His letters, they said…"

Cassandra nods, holding his arm in return. "And grandchildren. Grandpa Richard…"

"Grandpa Richard!" Connor exclaims and sniffles, astonished.

"He told us about this house. Where he came from. And what he left behind." she says, tearing up too. "He told me all about it."

"About Connor?" Hank's taken the guns aside, waved Sumo down.

Cassandra sobs softly, question tender while she looks up at Connor. "Grand-uncle Connor?"

It's like Connor breaks in two. It's that easy. Someone other than just Hank _knows_ him. Not just knows _of_ him, like the blurbs at the archive, or an obituary, or as Hank's mysterious partner. She knows _him_. She knows Connor Stern.

He dips to cradle her in a hug and she clings onto him like family finding each other after so, so long away. Connor's relief is palpable, but that just might be the tension vacating the room like a swift breeze. Beau keeps looking at Connor like he can't believe any of this is happening.

Hank thinks under the adrenaline leaving his body— _Hello, twilight zone three times over_. He shifts the safety back on his gun and sets it down, then cracks open the shotgun to disarm the damn thing—

"This thing isn't even loaded!" he sputters, looking at the lack of shells. "You brought an unloaded gun to your break-in?!"

"I didn't want to shoot anyone!" Cassandra says over Connor's shoulder, "It was to intimidate you."

Hank starts anxiously unloading his own gun, "I could've killed you!"

"Glad you didn't." Beau sighs.

"It was just to get him." Cassandra cups both of Connor's cheeks as they pull back, the joy written on her tear-streaked face.

"Me?" Connor whispers, all soft like he's meeting a newborn baby. He turns them around to look at Hank, presenting her with pride and love. "My beautiful grand-niece, Hank."

Hank's heart goes a little mushy seeing his bright, watery smile.

Connor looks to Beau, reaching out for him now. "And we've met. My… oh, my. Great-grandnephew?"

"I didn't realize it was you." Beau admits, getting wrapped in a hug now as well. "I… honestly, I didn't believe as much as grandma did."

"There's a lot you'll realize you can believe in." Hank offers, taking a glance up at Richard's portrait.

They thankfully lull into a restful atmosphere. Hank shuts the door and Beau offers to clean up the glass. Connor flits around the kitchen to make them all tea, while Cassandra tells them about the whys and hows.

Richard had told all of his family about Connor. He didn't want Connor to be forgotten, so he shared his memory. Some didn't believe the… more special points in Connor's history. But Beaumont did, Richard's daughter, and especially Cassandra. Evidently she'd sit in his study as a little girl and listen to him day in and day out. Especially about his plans to find the deed, so he could return to the property.

He never gave up on Connor. Not once, Cassandra says. And when she got old enough, and when he got much older, too old to keep up, she promised she would keep looking. The deed was so lost to time it wasn't even named the same when it fell into Hank's hands. Bartholomew had seen to that as his dying, frightened wish. As if Connor could somehow hurt him six feet under.

"I was afraid. I'm getting older, and I still hadn't found it. We didn’t want to go in without it, because we didn’t know what we’d find. What condition you would be in, and we wanted to give you time if you were alive, and… respectfully take the time to get you out if you weren’t. We had so many plans, for every case. Then we learned about you," She looks at Hank a bit apologetically. "I couldn't get the deed anymore, so I just… went for it. Beau wouldn't let me go alone."

"You don't just let your grandma break into a house to fulfill a family quest by herself." Beau says, like it's obvious.

"I didn't know what to expect. Part of me didn't expect to find anything." She admits, and squeezes Connor's hand. "Much less you, alive and well. But I had to find out, for him."

"Alive and well…" Connor murmurs. That's very kind. He sighs, looking across Richard's letters and the trinkets he's brought out for them to see. "Thank you, for finishing it for him."

"Thank you for not being bones." Beau replies, as Sumo bumps his hand for pets.

Connor’s gotten used to that kind of humorous honesty. He chuckles softly, sizing up his great-grandnephew before saying, "Would you like the pass to the wifi?"

Beau looks at Connor in a new light too, "You know what wifi is?"

He grins simply, "Oh, don't I?"

Connor doesn't see this, but Hank does. The way he fits right in, how easily he sees these people as family and they see him, too. The way he holds Cassandra's hands while they speak and gives undivided attention when Beau launches into a story. It makes Hank briefly wish Cole was here, to have all the family together.

Connor brings in the picture of Chloe and Richard, and Cassandra says they have a bigger one at home. He makes her promise that she'll show him. Hank gets all embarrassed when Connor gushes about him, he's not supposed to tell people he sings along to the records! They tour the house, Connor very proudly pointing out all the work they've done. They see Richard's room, and they see the basement. Sumo stops Connor before the stairs, wanting him to reconsider going because he knows that the basement makes Connor cry. He has to crouch down and assure Sumo it's okay.

But they go. Down that hallway, the fake wine door, the secret parlor behind the secret door and—

"Holy shit. It was real." Beau says, absolutely blown away, "Everything was real."

"Indeed." Connor won't step into the cell, but it's easier to look at now. "I believe that is what the adolescents refer to as 'deadass'. Hm?"

Hank pinches the bridge of his nose, "Connor, christ."

"He's a youth, Hank. He knows what I mean."

Cassandra shakes her head softly. There's a mix of emotions on her face. She tears her eyes away from the cell, from the mess of the room. Hank has realized the signs of struggle in the room aren't even Connor's— they were Richard's. Trying to get to him that night.

"I am so sorry." Cassandra says as she holds Connor's face between her palms. "I'm so sorry they did this to you."

Connor brings one of her hands close to kiss it. "It was more terrible than words can express, but I am happy where I am now. My heart is filled with more joy than you can imagine."

Connor's getting gifted with so many hugs, it makes him feel warm that they don't shy away from the chill.

They close up the basement again and as they're migrating towards the living room, Beau speaks up, however hesitantly. "So. It's all true. The basement, how great-great-grandpa lived so long, you… you're not human."

"Beau." Cassandra snaps, shaking her head.

"No, it's alright." Connor smiles, giving a little shrug. "Maybe I am not, not entirely. Some of these _legends_ ring true. The cold, of course you know already. The sun."

"His immortal enemy, the sun. Yeah." Hank nods sagely. Connor quirks a grin.

Beau wrings his hands, "And what about the… y'know." He bares his teeth and chomps them, then gives one hell of an unsure face.

"The teeth?" Connor looks delighted. Beau nods quickly, already trying to take a peek. It's not everyday you break into an old manor with your grandma and find that not only is your great-great-granduncle alive, but he's perfectly fucking preserved after more than a hundred years. He wants the proof.

And Connor's happy to oblige him. When he opens his mouth his teeth are their sharpest, and they pinch lightly at his lip when he smiles at the reaction he gets.

" _Holy_ shit!" Beau exclaims, dropping to a squat and then immediately standing back up for a closer look. He even adjusts his glasses and then needs to walk away, in a circle. "Oh my _god_ , it's real. It's fucking—" He turns around swiftly, "That medical report was such shit!"

"That's what I said." Connor agrees. He softens when Cassandra wants a closer look, letting her gently hold his chin. "I won't ever hurt you, you know."

"I learned long ago that I didn't need to be afraid of you, uncle." she tells him, and Connor all but melts. "My husband's a dentist, he'd probably like to see. They're very shiny."

He gets a little bashful, "I crush toothpaste tablets with them, it keeps them pristine…"

"That makes me wonder. Do you need anything?" She squeezes his arm comfortingly, "Essentials, clothes, money? I can get you anything you may need, I can go to the bank—"

"They know me at the bank!" He's excited to share. "Well, my face, anyway."

She looks at him wildly. "You've been to the bank?"

"Of course. I collected Richard's boxes."

"I… I assumed he did that for you." She gestures to Hank.

"I'm just the driver." Hank says.

"You've been outside." she says, but it’s almost like a question. "But it's only open—"

"During the day, yes." Connor chuckles softly, "While it's not the most comfortable, I have met the sun. Just like the film on the windows, Hank's gotten me protection. I can explain it in detail, if—"

"Yes. Absolutely." she urges, already encouraging him to sit.

They visit until sleep starts to win out. Connor wraps his grandniece in one of their throw blankets and tells Beau to take her home. Tells them both during hugs and kisses to get home safely, and to sleep well. He's here, he's here for them and he's so thankful.

As soon as they're out of sight down the driveway he's pushing into Hank's arms, both of them swaying with exhaustion. "My family, Hank."

"They're a good bunch." Hank hums into his hair, the way all of them have nurtured normalcy in this unprecedented situation has him doing the same. "You wanna come back to bed, or is the joy too much?"

"The joy strengthens my heart, but tires my bones. I'm very old, you know." he mumbles into the softness of Hank's shirt. All he gets is a snort in reply, and they both help each other back to bed, knowing the world has opened up.

Suddenly, they have a lot more places to visit. Connor bundles up and asks Hank to drive him. He wants to go to the bakery they always pass downtown. He smacks a kiss to Hank’s cheek and then runs in by himself, and comes back with a warm loaf of bread tucked under his arm. He also holds up a little paper sleeve and Hank finds a fresh oatmeal cookie inside it for him.

They go to Cassandra’s home— a beautiful brick building with a wide array of well cared for plants and flowers. Connor notices the rose bushes with a smile. The excitement outweighs the nervousness he feels as he gathers his bundle of goods and the three of them mosey up the walkway lined with sweetly painted stones. Cassandra is so happy to see him, like it gets confirmed for her every time she lays eyes on him that he’s actually here.

“Oh my, oh shit, oh goodness…” Connor catches her muttering when she runs over to close the curtains. “Jane! Francis! They’re here, come on!”

And she frets over him a small amount, touching his face to see if the sun has harmed him. As her uncle, he feels it’s his duty to do the same, and eagerly makes himself at home when he prepares her a snack of fresh bread with lemon curd and honey.

Meeting Jane and Francis is very nice. Francis, the husband, is a warm older man with a smile that Connor can appreciate, and so curious to actually meet him. Connor can tell he wasn’t a full believer… he believes after the teeth. Jane was their home android, before the revolution. They adored her to the point that when she deviated, it wasn’t out of some traumatic experience, it was out of love. She stayed with them, and the tender way she lays her hand on Cassandra’s shoulder makes Connor happy in a way he can’t really explain.

They talk and they share and he’s so happy when Hank jumps in to talk about when they first met. It’s a bit embarrassing, but it is important. He won’t ever forget the kindness, however shell shocked it was at the time, that Hank gave him. He still remembers how content he was to burn in front of Richard’s portrait, drown in his sorrows there on the floor. But Hank moved him, held him, and prepared him a bath. He gets a little teary-eyed as Hank talks about it, being modest about the sad details, but saying from the start, the only thing he thought logical was to help Connor.

He brought one of Richard’s tapes, and their player. It’s an instructional video on making pretzels, which he fumbles through just a little bit, old hands and pushing up his glasses with flour-covered fingers. He talks to Connor the entire time… there are children in the backyard out the window. Cassandra points herself out, in a green checkered dress at seven years old. At one point Beaumont makes an appearance, and Connor does cry, because it’s the first he’s seen of her as an adult. Cassandra promises to show him photos of Beaumont and Charles, as much as he wants.

And then she says that Beaumont is still alive. She’s pushing close to a hundred, and Connor almost has a damn heart attack, until Cassandra explains that it doesn't have anything to do with him. She doesn’t think any effect is passed down. She thinks. Probably. Maybe.

There’s not a damn thing in the world that could keep him from wanting to see her. Except…

“Would she even want to see me?” He might be losing it, just a little bit. “Wouldn’t it give her a fright? I cannot be the death of my niece!”

“She’s lived through quite a bit, dear.” Cassandra reasons, already gathering her coat. She looks over at Connor, with his pale face and big eyes, and sighs. “Oh, uncle…”

She gathers him in a hug, making him bend so he can tuck into her shoulder. Hank draws long strokes up and down his back. “I read about when she was born.”

“And now you’ll meet her.” Cassandra soothes.

“Am I even dressed nicely enough? I’m wearing her father’s clothes, for goodness sake.”

Hank hums, “You look nice, Connor. Don’t worry.”

Cassandra coos, “I think she’ll be the happiest to see your beautiful face, not what you’re wearing.”

Francis gestures to the coffee he’s brewing, “If you smuggle this in for her, she won’t gripe about much of anything.”

“Francis!” Cassandra lets Connor go exclusively to put her hands on her hips.

Jane brings over the sweet little mary janes Cassandra couldn’t find with her other shoes, and presses a kiss to her temple. She sneaks in a whisper, “It’s decaf, I made sure.”

Connor meticulously makes himself presentable in front of the hall mirror, and thanks Francis profusely when he’s handed a thermos of coffee. Francis waves him off, giving him a gentle pat on the shoulder, “I just wish you could be seeing him today.”

He wishes, too.

He spends the entire ride to Beaumont’s elderly community cul-de-sac hunched over with his face in Sumo’s fur, asking for little woofs of encouragement. It’s like he can’t bear to look at where they’re going, it makes him too anxious. And telling Hank it feels like the devil’s shaking his bones calms him, because Hank says he understands completely.

It’s a nice area, seemingly with some element of assisted living. It’s lush in greenery and all the sidewalks are perfectly paved flat, there’s a community center building where a nurse says Beaumont is playing cards. Even if the sun is peeking through the clouds now that it’s nearing noon, Connor lags behind while they’re all walking over. Sumo lingers with him in solidarity.

“Connor?” Hank looks back at him, and holds out a hand like he can pull Connor through the wall of worry that’s blocking his path. “It’s little Monty, that’s all.”

He can hear Cassandra go inside and find her, “Mother. Are you winning?”

“Oh! I’m always winning, dandelion.” Beaumont tells her sweetly. “What’s my wonderful girl doing here, huh?”

“Well…” Cassandra hesitates, no doubt waiting for them. “I wanted to visit. Today’s a special day.”

“Don’t tell me I forgot a birthday like some old lady.”

Connor squeezes Hank’s hand probably a little too hard when he makes his legs move. They slip through the door and Connor plasters himself against the wall, looking across the room at the little table of elderly people with their cards. He knows immediately which one is Beau. She’s wearing a shawl like the one Connor has at home, beautifully embroidered. Richard probably got it for her.

Hank is his tether, leading him forward when he’s struck at just how much she looks like her parents. The bright baby blues and the gentle smile. She’s Richard’s baby and Connor all at once feels loss for the passage of time and incredible elation to see her at all.

“Not exactly, mom.” Cassandra says, at almost the exact moment Beaumont’s eyes shift over, and sees Connor taking off his hat and cowl. She stares at him like she’s seeing a ghost and for a frightening moment, Connor thinks she’ll say Richard’s name.

But all she gives is a loud, resounding, “Fuck!”

And then they all watch this woman, pushing 100 years old, throw her cards aside and grab for her walker. She gets herself up with impressive agility and the little tennis balls on her walker slide across the floor as she barrels towards him. And all he can do is hold his heart in his throat and fidget with the wide brim of his hat. “Beaumont…”

“You!” She takes him by the shoulders and looks him over like she’s searching for _something_. Then she cups his cheek and really feels how cold he is, and shakes her head. “No…”

“I’m afraid so.” he whispers, very prepared for the worst.

He doesn’t expect a hug from her, but he’s crushed to her chest nonetheless. She’s surprisingly strong for being in her 90s, and Connor feels as if all of his love could spill out onto this tiled floor, hearing her whisper, “It is you, then. I never thought it would be you, it can’t be real.”

“It is me, I promise.” he whispers back, gentle when he holds her, too. “I couldn’t just leave another Stern to fend alone, could I?”

“You didn’t leave him.” Beau pulls back to look him in the eye when she says that, holding him by the chin so he has to hear it. Her expression turns away from surprise, more into softness and disbelief. “How…?”

He doesn’t think he could explain fast enough. So what he does is fumble to take out the pocket mirror found in one of those old boxes, and hold it up to the two of them. She grabs for his hand when his reflection doesn’t show through. “It must run in our blood, to live so long.”

“Oh, you are dramatic. Just like he said.” She shakes her head and gives the mirror another long look, at the shifting fog in his vague shape. “You don’t know how happy he would be.”

“Yes, but how happy are you?” he asks hesitantly, as if she still wouldn’t want him.

Beaumont looks at him like he’s being the silliest man on the face of the earth. “How could I not be overjoyed? Connor Stern, give us a smile.”

That’s when the tears come. And just like the others, Beaumont doesn’t shy away from them either. Richard made sure they knew him before he’d ever show his face, and he couldn’t be more thankful. An accepting family, after all these years.

She takes the edge of her shawl to wipe his face, shushing him softly, telling him Richard wouldn’t stand for the tears in such a happy moment. She tells her friends that she’s done for the day, she’s got family to see to, and leads them to her home.

Connor helps her into her favorite chair and gets the thermos of coffee Sumo was kindly holding in his little vest, and makes sure his niece is entirely comfortable. He sits on the floor at her feet and tells her stories all about her father, even some embarrassing ones for good measure. They laugh, and Beau tells him to sneak into her cupboard for the wine. They sip a vintage while she asks all kinds of questions about him, and then about Hank when it's clear he's Connor's. She's a beautiful soul and Connor tells her so… and tells her how much he wishes he could've been there.

"It was like you were." she says, as Connor fiddles with the controls on her fireplace. It reminds him of keeping the chill from Richard too, the way she stretches her legs towards the heat. It's almost the exact same movement. "He would talk about colors and foods and beautiful views, and say 'Oh, your uncle would have adored this.' We knew you, dear, you weren't ever absent."

Connor doesn't know what to say. What he feels is too big and too grateful for words. He makes sure her foot pillow is plumped enough and the only words he has are, "Thank you."

"I should be thanking you. I had to worry about people thinking it suspicious he was alive, rather than worry over him dying before any of us were ready. He lived to see all of my children be born, he lived to see things he thought were magical. Thanks should be given to you."

Connor shakes his head softly. Every one of those things, Richard deserved. "82 was rather suspicious, on the stone."

"He would not go into hiding any faster, all tied up in his projects!" she laughs, with a bit of old exasperation. "I told him 'take your little electronics and all your books, the summer house is perfect for a dead man'. He finally agreed when I threatened to leave out his parts of his obituary."

Hank snorts, "He wrote his own fake obituary?"

"And tested out his own coffin!" Beau shakes her head, "Dramatic as I'd ever seen him… He said when he really went that he'd wanted to get all the excitement out of the way first."

"Isn't it odd? Going to visit him and the information is wrong?" Connor asks.

Beau looks at him strangely, then to her daughter. "You didn't tell him?"

Cassandra looks a little timid. Connor feels like he's missing something. "Tell me what?"

"He's not there, dear." Beau explains. "He's not buried in that plot."

That makes him feel strangely ill. "Why not? It's the family plot."

"Well, we couldn't bury him twice." Cassandra says, "That would've been doubly suspicious."

It does explain one thing that had Connor all twisted up, and Hank catches on immediately. "That's why there weren't any flowers for him."

"He told us not to adorn and weep where he wasn't resting." Beau informs.

"I'd put flowers out for you." Cassandra tells Connor. "Because we couldn't get to where you were resting. He said you deserved them, your favorites."

Connor brings himself through a deep breath, and Beau lets him lay his head on her leg. "Oh."

"He always wanted to bring you home." Beau says, her fingers smoothing his hair. "I'll have you know, very proud of my daughter for that. Even at your frightened expense, Hank."

Hank snorts and waves a dismissive hand, even while he shares a look with Cassandra that says they won't ever say how scared shitless the both of them were.

"Even though I didn't take the search as seriously… I thought there would have been no way you could have survived, even with what you are. I was too busy trying to care for the family I could see…"

"I don't blame you." He makes sure to tell her, because there's no way he could ever blame her. He's seen the past hold too much over the present. Just like Richard living, he's glad she did, too.

"Of course you wouldn't. Sweet old bastard." she whispers, like it's a weight off of her shoulders to know that. He's happy to take that pain. "But I promised myself. If you were alive, I'd help keep you that way. As he did."

Connor lifts his head and she's rolling up her sleeve. It hits him like bricks what she's offering. Like father, like daughter. "Beaumont…"

"Don't take that tone. He said you'd take that tone." She pats his cheek. "I adored you. Hearing about you, getting to know you secondhand. My extravagant uncle, who was so bright and so different, yet still unconditionally loved. Knowing you made it easier to be me. I told myself I would help you, because that is what family does."

He takes her hand and presses a soft kiss to her palm, “You are an angel, I—”

“I’m nothing of the sort. You are family, Connor.” she says it like a point, and it is a practiced point. Connor used to call someone family when he couldn’t be vulnerable enough to tell them he loved them. “You’re deserving.”

Part of him thinks Beaumont needs to feel deserving too, because there’s the smallest twinge of guilt still held when she speaks. He strokes over her hand, already looking for a good spot, “It’s very kind. I did skip breakfast…”

“In your own time.” She moves a few stray strands of hair from his forehead.

Hank gives Sumo a little sign, and the dog goes over to lay his big head across Connor’s shoulders in comfort. When Connor glances back, Hank gives him a soft, encouraging smile. He saw the tension in the line of Connor’s back. He knows the old anxieties. “Thank you.”

He finds a viable spot at the side of her arm and numbs the area. He holds her hand when he gently sinks his teeth in, pushing forward all the soothing and calming he used to give Richard. Her hand loosens slightly and she gives a surprised, elated chuckle. “Oh, I see now. You’re going to send me to sleep, uncle!”

He gives her hand a small, happy squeeze.

“I passed out the first time he ever did that with me.” Hank says. He thankfully doesn’t mention he also paralyzed Hank’s whole lower body.

“And after?” Beau asks, snuggled right into her chair and only relaxing further.

He tries not to flush. “He made it up to me.”

Connor takes his fill while he monitors his niece's reactions, making sure she’s content and healthy. She’s not sick, there’s good circulation and oxygenation in her blood, and where he finds pain it’s easy to flush out. He’s happy to know he’s soothing her aches. She'll feel drained for a bit but better overall after that. When he pulls away, he's a little dizzy, feels a little heavier. It always takes from him, too.

"There we go, Connor. Easy." Hank's cooing. "She's fine, you rest."

"Hank." he says, just as he plops backwards right onto his ass. Hank makes a noise and comes to his aid. Sumo climbs into his lap. "Get her another cup of coffee."

Beaumont sputters out a huff of elated laughter, both of them sounding like they've had too much of the wine. “You look like a milk drunk kitten!”

Connor finds a bubble of laughter burst from him, too. She's actually pretty correct, he certainly feels that way. "That's no way to talk to your uncle."

"Well, you're the only one I've got. What other uncle am I going to poke fun at?" She smiles when Cassandra helps her with her coffee cup.

"You've got me there, little one." He nods, laying his head back on the couch and lovingly turning towards Hank's hand on his shoulder. "Did you have kittens? I always wanted a kitten… I've got Sumo instead."

Connor gives Sumo a pat and the big lug just lays himself over Connor's front. Beau looks so at ease, covering up with her shawl and knitted blanket. "That's a good dog."

"A very good dog." he agrees. Sumo licks his cheek.

"Uncle, I wish father could see you." she remarks, looking at him with one of those gentle smiles.

Connor hums when Hank kisses his hair, "He would see how happy I am in this moment."

They stay a while. Connor isn't fast on his feet and he wants to be entirely sure Beau will be alright as well. They watch some news and find a movie on TV. Hank eats lunch with them and chats in depth while Connor snoozes gently on the other half of the couch. Beau falls asleep too, and they marvel at the two oldest members of the Stern family, having their midday naps.

Hank and Connor leave when Connor wakes. He fusses with his niece, making sure her blanket is tucked in and she's sleeping peacefully. He leaves her the compact mirror. Cassandra gets a round of hugs and thanks, and Hank holds him with their arms interwoven when they trek back to the car.

"She's a peach, Connor." Hank says once they're on the road.

"Richard's eldest baby." He smiles. "Can you believe Charles moved all the way to Spain?"

"I don't blame him for escaping a Detroit winter." Hank chuckles.

They swing by the store for a pickup of groceries, and there's a parcel on the front porch when they get home. Hank's treated them to more chamomile baths, which gets him kissed for the thought. Hank mentions while they're putting away the groceries that they should go to an antique shop sometime, if Connor wants to find more fancy frames to put his pictures in. Ones that fit the aesthetic they're going for with the house. They plan for the next rainy day.

Connor 'helps' Hank through some of his physical therapy exercises. Helps, as in, entirely distracts him with those chilly hands lingering in warm spots, and helping him hold a stretch from between his legs. He ends up throwing Connor to the other side of the bed and doing his planks while they kiss. It's hard holding his muscles clenched when the two of them are laughing.


	23. the capable and lovely Mr. Stern

The next two weeks is a mix of time spent out and about, with company coming and going, and quiet lazy days in. Beaumont visits the house for the first time and Connor tries to bake her soft pretzels in the oven outside. Cole visits to give Connor a transfusion then stay for dinner and games, and Cassandra shows up with a care package of things for Connor. It’s a nice family moment, where they have dessert first so Cassandra can be home for dinner, and Cole looks incredibly confused when 3,000 dollars in cash is nestled in with sweets and a cashmere sweater.

Connor becomes more and more at home when visiting his family. It’s taken a while, where all the tension drains from his shoulders and the thought that he doesn’t belong dissipates. Jane sets up the door to recognize Connor and welcome him home, like it does for every member of the family. He sees a plethora of photo albums and family heirlooms, and learns lots of wonderful things.

Hank goes quiet halfway through one visit, while they’re looking at clearer family photos. Cassandra asks for his help bringing in tea, so Connor just resolves to remember every detail so he can inform Hank later.

“You don’t say anything.” Cassandra whispers, looking Hank in the eye. “I know what you saw, but… you have to wait. Do you understand?”

Hank sure as fuck doesn’t. “Why—?”

“No.” She points at him, with all the authority in the world. “Not yet.”

“Does Beaumont know?” he asks.

“Of course she does.” She busies herself finding the sugar cubes. “She signed off on the final decision.”

Hank puts on a smile when they join Connor and family in the living room again. He lies when he says he’s okay and covers it up with a kiss to Connor’s forehead.

They go home and that night they dance in the backyard, freshly cut grass under their feet. They look at Connor’s little notebook plotting the stars and sit in their lawn chairs like a pair of old men. Connor prepares a bath and coaxes Hank into it, taking care to show him some love after Hank’s been focusing so much on him while he gets reacquainted with his family. Hank thinks it’s silly, because he’s in love and happy to do it, but Connor kisses him quiet and tells him he wants to show appreciation anyway.

Hank humors him, while just maybe doing a bit of relaxation. It’s nice to hear Connor hum while washing his back and shoulders, and when he dips close to kiss the shell of his ear he can feel the vibration of it against his skin. He steals kisses until Connor takes it upon himself to wash his face and beard, since he’s so close already.

At that point, Hank finds it just a crime Connor’s so far away. Far away means just at the outside of the tub, less than two feet from him, of course. Taking Connor around the waist and drawing him into the water is easy, still in his turtleneck and skirt.

“Oh hush, hush.” He grins while Connor laughs and protests. It feels so indulgent to run his hands up Connor’s body and get his clothes wet in the process, squeezing him at the waist while they adjust their legs to settle together.

Connor snorts and his eyes crinkle in delight, “Mr. Anderson, I cannot _believe_ —!”

“Oh, yes you can!” He takes Connor’s hands from the lip of the tub and gently settles them on his chest. He remembers when he was afraid to touch Connor at all. “I couldn’t resist. Such a figure…”

“With all the plasma you’ve been treating me to, I actually have a figure again.” He traces the little moles and sun freckles across Hank’s collar, drawing soft water across his skin. He watches his lover’s hands guide the soaked fabric of his skirt up over his knees, then dip underneath to feel along his thighs.

“So you understand my weakness.” Hank coos, leaning up so their lips can brush.

He runs his hand through Hank’s hair, twisting the damp ends between his fingers. The way Hank looks at him… he absolutely does understand.

Connor gets two ideas in his head. One, that being well over a hundred years old— a well-done adult, if you will, that he should run an errand all on his own. And two, that with all the recent talk of groceries being an issue for a few of Cole’s friends going through college, and the added stance that they won’t just take Connor’s money, he thinks a good old fashioned hunt is in order. There’s lots of forest, vacant land all around them, and Connor wonders on their preferences that the woods have to offer.

“I used to hunt plenty, Hank! Being brought on trips with my father and his associates, a few with the local game hunter.” he explains, nodding despite Hank’s surprise. “While I was deemed a flamboyant socialite, I did work. Just not many saw.”

Hank finds himself shrugging, honestly a bit overwhelmed that Connor so aggressively wants to help. It hits him that Connor considers Cole family, and even those family-adjacent are under Connor’s umbrella of care. “Alright, bud. Do you need anything for this grand hunt?”

“A knife.” Connor tells him.

And?

“That’s it?”

“Perhaps a small pouch?”

He looks so fucking confident. So Hank gives him an old hunting knife from when he used to go fishing, and at nightfall Connor kisses him before setting out, wearing old denim and a goddamn billowing victorian shirt. Looking like that, Hank doesn’t expect him to come back with much of anything. Maybe a fish, from the stream. If he’s lucky.

Connor is out, for a long time. Like, it’s verging on 1am and Hank’s nodding off in his chair with his book slipping out of his hands and glasses at the tip of his nose, when he hears Sumo woof and scuttle to the back door. He’s crackling his old bones like a day old baguette when he gets up to follow.

And you know? Hank’s seen a lot. Especially with Connor. He’s seen a lot of sides of Connor. He’s seen him full of emotion, gray instead of a healthy glow, sharp-toothed smiles, drunk off non-wine, wearing a long string of pearls around his neck and nothing else, blood smeared over his mouth. He’s seen _a lot_ of Connor.

But seeing Connor walk out of the woods— black eyes, sharp teeth, lit by the moon, with blood all down the front of his body? It’s a fucking trip. Fish hanging from a belt loop, bloody sleeves rolled up, knife in one hand and a deer antler _with a wholeass deer_ attached in the other, he gives Hank a triumphant smile. “You’re still awake!”

“What? Holy fucking shit, Connor! What happened?” He’s almost too stunned to move but his body simply does it for him, trying to make sure Connor’s not hurt.

“Hm? Oh!” Connor glances down at himself when Hank grabs him by a non-stained patch of shirt. “It did get a tad bit messy. But I’ve brought sustenance! For Cole’s group, and Cole himself, and you.”

“You did all this?” Hank cups his cheek, looking him over.

“Of course.” Connor smiles, teeth glinting in the moonlight. He shrugs bashfully, “I… got a tad bit hungry.”

He lifts the deer slightly.

He fucking ate the deer.

And the way Connor says it is so sweet, a scarce bit bashful, even with the horrifying visual he makes. Hank remembers yet again that his life is far from normal, and the man he loves is… real fuckin’ peculiar. But sweet, infinitely sweet. “Did you?”

Connor feels such happiness that Hank isn’t pushing him away. That he can be useful for more than taking pain and giving feeling. He can provide for his loved ones in other ways. He promises he’ll take care of dividing the meat and that Hank can go to sleep if he wishes. Hank gives him some storage bags and heads back inside.

The thing about knowing Connor, and always learning more about him, is that Hank finds he’s continuously impressed. With his thoughts, his expression, his care and willingness. For all Connor has said Richard was the better and softer one, Connor has become so gentle and shown such emotion. Part of him thinks Connor has always been that way, he just wasn’t allowed to show it, so he started to believe he was less. But now he’s in this environment, where he can _be_ without thought of what’s expected of him, of what is ‘proper’ for an eldest son and young man and ‘right’ citizen. Hank personally thinks Richard would be proud.

Connor’s gotten through the deer and is finishing up the fish when Hank comes back outside. He’s lugging a big metal basin of sloshing water that he sets in the grass nearby. He’s not exactly sure what Hank’s doing but he smiles seeing him nonetheless, “I’m almost done here. Have you seen the beautiful mushrooms I found?”

“You found a little bit of everything, didn’t you?” Hank tosses a hand towel over his shoulder and comes around to look. They could be really good burgers for Cole’s vegetarian friend, or additions to pasta… “You’re so good, Connor.”

“I try to be.” He whispers.

“Is there anything you need me to take care of? Where’s the heart and guts and stuff?” Hank’s plan is to help Connor get done a bit more quickly so he can stop looking like he’s straight out of a themed movie.

But Connor looks at him oddly, “I buried the heart, Hank. You mourn the animal, give thanks for their sacrifice, and return their heart to the earth.”

“Oh.” Hank softens at Connor’s respectful tone. “I’m sorry, bud. Did you learn that from the game hunter?”

“Well, I certainly didn’t learn it from my father.” He gives a wry smile. “I won’t say I completely understood when I was told, but it definitely connected later. Respect and honor… Otherwise they are just ‘guts and stuff’ at the end, and with what I am… people could be that, too.”

Hank feels his heart wiggle a little fuckin’ funny. Connor cares so much, and it’s kind of inconceivable that he could ever be any other way, even looking like he does right now. But the man that turned Connor was exactly like that. Without respect and honor for another living being, and Connor just became ‘guts and stuff’ to him.

He leans to push Connor’s hair off his forehead, “You’re a good man, Connor.”

“I try to be.” He’s told, resolutely.

When the meat is done and everything that can be saved is, Hank leads him over to the basin of water. They kneel on either side of it and Hank takes the warm, soapy water to Connor’s skin, gently washing away the blood from his mouth and chin first.

“You don’t have to.” Connor whispers, even as he lets himself sway into those big hands, trying to wash his own clean. He says it like he’s surprised Hank would help with this.

“I want to.” Hank murmurs, holding Connor by the jaw and squeezing out the cloth before starting to work on his neck. And Connor gives him that look, the one with the gently pulled brows and the eyes asking if he’s really sure. That look makes Hank roil a little, far away, for the people that hurt him so much to make that his first reaction. “I can’t wait to crawl into bed with you.”

“You could wear your nightgown.” Connor cracks a small, indulgent smile.

“Oh, we’d like that.” he hums, reaching for the tucked-in hem of Connor’s shirt.

Connor’s clothes come off little by little, cleaning him up in sections. It doesn’t fix him up perfectly, but enough to walk through the house to get to the shower. And when he comes out, warm to the touch for the moment, Hank is waiting in bed wearing that indulgent nightgown, the long slit up the side of it. He can climb into bed and dip down to press a kiss to Hank’s bare thigh, then curl underneath his heating pad.

“You did so well tonight.” Hank whispers, as he covers them in their mountain of blankets.

“You’ll call Cole tomorrow? So he can pick up the food?” Connor shoves his face into Hank’s side as he does most nights, basking in the predictable hand that falls into his damp hair.

“Scout’s honor.” he promises, letting Connor curl around him. Connor’s always just cool enough for him not to be uncomfortable when they’re buried under these blankets.

There’s a soft, satisfied hum as Connor settles in. “Good. Sleep for me, now. You’ve stayed up too late for me.”

“Ah, we’re all foolish for love.”

In the morning, Hank wakes up to an excited bark from Sumo. Connor’s not in bed so he assumes Sumo either is going out or coming back inside. He hauls himself from bed and lazily goes through his morning routine before he joins his boys downstairs. And to his surprise, Connor’s fully dressed and sorting groceries.

“Hey,” he walks up and rubs Connor’s back, recognizing the feeling of his UV garments under his shirt. “What’s all this?”

“I went to the farmer’s market.” Connor hums, clearly proud of himself. He’s got fresh fruit and veg, small bags of grains and starches, jars of fresh honey. He moves a bag of oregano to the side and finds a paper sleeve, holding it up to Hank enticingly.

“Is that really…?” He’s excitedly snatching the sleeve from Connor to take out a still-warm soft pretzel. This is a precious, coveted treat from the farmer’s market. “You’re the best.”

“I know.” Connor hums.

He chews while he talks, too excited to wait. “You didn’t have any trouble?”

“None, really.” Connor starts laying out specific piles of food across their counter— potatoes, spaghetti, rice, spices, pears, honey. “I was in a self-driving car, Hank. What an experience! Those little taxis are delightful, and the voice is so soothing.”

Hank smiles to himself, ducking around to start up some coffee. “Oh yeah?”

“Yes! I took your phone, and Sumo came with me. We thought you’d be fine, your sleep was very deep.” Connor explains, holding up a few ripe tomatoes, “Look at how beautiful these are.”

Hank feels his heart get a little soft. Connor still appreciates the little things, even with all this technology around him. “They’re real nice, flower bud. Why’d you get so much? Are you planning a dinner party?”

“Oh, a dinner party could be wonderful.” he muses, opening up their personal honey jar to take a spoonful for himself. “These will go with the meat. The market provided these nice boxes for storage.”

Hank pauses for a moment, letting that sink in. Connor won’t let those kids go hungry, but also will not let them go without a rich spread, either. He takes Connor gently by the back of the neck and leans around to give him a soft kiss, tasting honey in his mouth. “Thank you, for going through all this trouble. They’re not expecting all this.”

“What do they expect? These are _fresh tomatoes_.”

“Honey, I don’t even think they’re expecting apples.”

“Then tell me, how will they make an apple pie if I do not give them apples?”

Hank just has to kiss him again. Sumo pushes his way between them because there’s peanut butter waiting that Connor had promised him, and evidently it’s time for it.

Cole comes around, fresh off the late shift, just as Connor is settling small bouquets of tulips from the garden into the finished boxes. While he’s staring in tired disbelief at the spread, Connor maneuvers a honey-pear turnover towards his mouth, telling him he works too much and there’s multiple places to sleep in the house, if he needs.

Connor looks overjoyed when Cole wraps him in a tight hug. He keeps trying to talk about a dough recipe and Cole just lets him babble.

While Hank’s helping his son set the boxes into the back of his car, Cole pauses. “Cad’s gonna love these mushrooms, you know.”

“He’s the earthy type.” he agrees with a nod.

“And Milo’s gonna lose it when he sees the fillets.” Cole looks at him, and Hank knows what he’s saying. That it’s a lot. “Pops, how can we thank Connor for this?”

He shrugs, chuckling softly. “I don’t know if he’d take thanks, honey. He thinks it’s just the way it should be.”

“But if we could.”

Hank tries to keep his voice down, lest Connor be listening, when he lists off a few ideas.

Hank’s been looking longingly out the windows for half an hour. Sitting in his chair like a wonderful model, head tipped slightly to the side, hands folded over his belly. Connor’s lazily drinking hot chocolate and trying to draw him on a fresh page in his little book. He never had Richard’s talent for the arts, but he likes to think he picked something up. Hank sighs wistfully to nothing in particular, maybe one of his own thoughts, and Connor gives a little smile.

“Dearest,” he coos, earning him a soft hum. “Is there anything you’d like to do today?”

Hank looks at him with all the love in the world, and just a little bit unsure. “Ah… I had thoughts about getting out today.”

“Oh? And where would you like to go?” He closes his book and enjoys another long sip of hot chocolate.

“I don’t know! That’s the thing.” Hank shrugs, “It just looks like a nice day, and being outside would be, y’know…”

“Nice?” he finishes, and Hank nods. He sets down his nearly empty cup and uncurls from his seat, coming around to Hank’s. He lays a gentle hand on his forearm, “Then what do you say I put on my covers, hm?”

“Oh, honey. It looks like it could turn real sunny at any time, I—”

“And it could also rain.” he counters, leaning down close, “I could even put on my _jeans_. What do you think?

“Really?” Hank sounds so blown away. Connor gives him an indulgent nod. “Well, we could take a ride somewhere.”

The three of them are ready in about fifteen minutes. Connor’s got dressing down to a science now, with all his pieces. Sumo insists on wearing his custom patterned sunflower vest, and Hank adds his little ascot tie that doubles as a slobber bib. Connor calls them handsome when he comes downstairs looking handsome, too.

It’s cloudy but there’s the promise of something, whether it be rain or sun. They take a nice drive with the windows down, enjoying the fresh air and pointing out lawns and houses they like. They talk off and on about things on their minds, plans they could make. Hank wishes he could take Connor to the beach, for the fun aspect of course, and also just because a vampire at the beach sounds fucking metal. Connor laughs and says the last swimsuit he had covered a lot of skin, anyway.

Hank remembers they wanted to go to the antique shop, and Connor’s a little delighted that he may be able to see some things as old as him. He still hasn’t told Hank just how old he is, and Hank doesn’t think he ever will. They park near a tree just in case the sun wants to make a full appearance by the time they leave.

“Ah, smell that?” Hank grins as they enter the shop, “It reminds me of you.”

Connor gives him a scandalized look and gently slaps him on the chest, one of those reprimanding “ _Mr. Anderson!_ ”s popping off. The light, musty, aged smell actually does remind him of Connor - of his clothes when he found him, of their house before they made it a home.

They weave through the barely contained clutter of the place, old floorboards creaking under their feet. Hank admires a rug on display, Connor marvels at a leather desk chair in seemingly good condition. Sumo sneezes when he sniffs a slightly dusty bin of books. It’s wild when Connor points out something so old and says shit like “Oh, I always wanted one of these! They were popular, you know.”

Hank wonders if Connor can be seen in some of these mirrors, and luckily Connor wants to know the same thing. He sweeps from mirror to mirror, both of them judging the ones that don’t give them Connor’s sweet reflection. Hank holds up multiple hand mirrors like Connor is the land’s king and he’s a devoted simple jester, desperately trying to appease vanity. They try to keep it quiet when they laugh.

Connor wanders towards cases near the front and Hank dips around to find some old postcards. Connor talked about a decorative garland of seasonal cards his mother used to make, thinks maybe they can do something like that. He finds a few, some old art of people wrapping presents and a very concerning one of a humanoid bunny for Easter. Which he grabs. He can’t leave _that_ here alone. A few stacks of things over, he hears Connor gasp.

“May I see that one, sir? Yes, just there. Thank you.” Connor’s saying, and Hank smiles. He must have found something he likes. “Hank?”

He rounds the corner and skirts past a precarious stack of books, seeing Connor pick a large ring from a display the shopkeeper has taken out for him. “Ah, find something nice?”

Between Connor’s fingers is a thick gold band with beautiful curled etching, and inset with a series of green and white gems. The weird thing is, there’s some kind of twine wrapped around it too, on either side of the gem array. Hank smiles, “That’s nice!”

“It’s mine.” Connor says, a tiny hint accusatory like when he couldn’t touch Richard’s sculptures at the museum.

“What? Really?” Hank spares a glance to the shopkeeper as they move away far enough, Connor looking at it under one of the antique lamps.

“It’s customized, from the jewelers. I wanted different gems.” Connor slides it onto his middle finger, turning it in the light, “I got it for myself when I first received some money of my own… but it ended up being too big. The twine used to be layered with gold.”

"Jesus. How'd it get here?" Hank wonders the amount of hands it's been through to end up here.

"Well, whoever took it from my bedroom didn't think they were stealing…" Connor sighs. "So much I'll never get back."

"Let me get it for you." Hank says, rubbing his back.

"Hank, it's terribly expensive! I should know, I'm the one that put white diamonds in it." He inspects it again, and then slips it off his finger. "I'm going to speak to the owner."

"And say _what_?" Hank has a momentary vision of Connor reprimanding the man like a child. Connor doesn't reply, he just slips off silently like he fucking does sometimes. So damn quiet when he really wants to be. Hank peers down at Sumo so they can share a Look. Then he signs to Sumo that he can _carefully_ go find something nice.

He ends up following the big lug over to the children's section, where Sumo's tail wags lazily while looking at the old toys and books. Hank doesn't stray far, he ends up finding some of those picture frames in an old wardrobe being used for display. He'll make a point to have Connor check them for silver, just in case, before they buy them.

He whistles softly for Sumo to follow when he starts weaving back through the rows, and looks back to see Sumo coming along with an old teddy bear carefully held between his teeth. What a cutie, Hank for sure thought it would be the wood block he was eyeing. They make it to the front desk again to see Connor leaning against it, gesturing vaguely while the shopkeeper nods along. The guy looks thoroughly entranced, caught up in Connor with interest. Hank shoulda known, honestly. Connor could interest anyone.

Hank doesn’t bother announcing himself, he knows Connor knows he’s pulling up alongside. He even turns and gives a short smile, taking the frames from Hank’s hands and saying, “These, too.”

“Careful, Con. You gotta…” Hank gestures. Connor deliberately touches them, while setting them down on the counter one by one.

Sumo lifts up and sets his paws on the counter, so he can gently set his bear down, too. Connor nods seriously, “This, as well.”

The shopkeeper seems to agree, cataloging each item before beginning to bag them up. “Of course. And you’ll come by on Thursday?”

“As it rains.” Connor replies, reassuringly.

Hank slips his wallet from his pocket to fish out his card, but the shopkeeper shakes his head, sliding the paper bags across the counter, “I’ll be excited for your return.”

Connor smiles with delight, “It’s a shared feeling, sir.”

As they leave, Hank just spends it quietly running through what the fuck just happened. They get into the car and Connor slips Sumo’s little bear back to him after a fond appraisal. “A good choice for a good boy.”

“Connor, honey.” Hank starts up the car but doesn’t do more yet. “What deal did you make that made him tell me to put away my wallet?”

“I found a use for all that pesky silverware in the basement.” The grin on Connor is wonderful. He takes his ring from the bag and gazes at it lovingly, satisfied as a cat who got the cream.

Hank snorts, outright. “I can’t believe you thought of that!”

“I hate those utensils!” Connor laughs, picking at the twine on the ring. “I’m happy to be almost rid of them!”

Hank laughs quietly to himself while he buckles up and prepares to get them home.

In the driveway, Connor shrugs off his seat belt but doesn't get out yet. He's been polishing the ring with the sleeve of his shirt, and finally tugs the knot loose on the last of the twine. He lets it fall into the footwell of the passenger seat.

He tries it on his middle finger, and it clangs against the rest of his jewelry when it sits too big. "Hank?"

Hank looks over at him from making sure he's got everything in his pockets. And he looks so beautiful, Connor thinks to himself. He smiles softly, the one he knows Hank likes. "It doesn't quite fit my finger, still."

"That's too bad, it's beautiful." Hank leans closer to inspect it. "Maybe we can get it fitted for you."

"Mm. It may be a waste." He shrugs, slipping it off again. And gently as anything, he takes Hank's left hand and guides it onto his ring finger. They both admire it there, for a moment, where it fits. "Perhaps it looks better here."

“Connor…” Hank says quietly, in a gentle and measured way.

“Wouldn’t you agree?” he whispers, meaning more than he says.

“I think… If you want me to have it, I think it’s a real good fit.” Hank tells him, slow and meaning more than he says, too.

“I do.” He promises.

Hank feels the crackle of heat, of those two words. It makes him feel home, with his old romantic heart. He reaches to cradle Connor’s icy cheek, looking at the tenderness in his eyes. “I do, too.”

He thinks a ring might look good on Connor’s finger, too. A special one, from him. He thinks about it the whole time they’re heading inside, trying to process the new addition on his own finger and what that means and what Connor means to him and how— god, how whatever ring he gets Connor has to compete with all the others on his fingers.

He’s getting Sumo out of his vest when his phone rings, and he almost just lets the call go because he’s so in his feelings. But it’s insistent, they don’t just hang up to text him instead. “Afternoon, what’s up?”

“Hello, Hank.” Ah, Cassandra.

“Oh, hey! You lookin’ for me or Connor?” Sumo gently shakes out of his vest to help him while he speaks. Connor peeks around the corner at the top of the stairs, brows high and expectant.

Cassandra is quiet for a moment but then she says, “Both of you, I think. It may be easier.”

That churns Hank’s gut right away. “What does that mean?”

“It’s a family matter, and you have been his family. He may need the support, so I’m asking if you’d bring him here.” she explains, as if that helps at all. Connor’s coming down the stairs now, pulling his UV shirt back on. He looks worried, too.

“Where? Anything else you can tell me?” Hank stands as Connor nears, “God— it’s not Monty, is it?”

“Oh! No, no she’s fine. I’ll be sending you the directions. Please, just bring my uncle.”

He hands the phone to Connor so he can get Sumo back into his vest, explain that they’re going out again. Hearing that Beaumont’s okay doesn’t stop the worry, “What’s going on, my dear?”

They talk for a short minute and Connor only seems to twist with more and more unease. He says things like, “You would tell me if you’re in trouble, yes?” and “I would do anything for you and your mother, you know this.”

And finally he hangs up, and spares Hank a lost look before running to collect his other shirt. Hank sends the link with directions to the GPS in the car, noticing it’s just in the middle of nowhere. There are weird alarm bells sounding in Hank’s head, but he piles them into the car again anyway.


	24. dear brother, i have lived a life

It’s a bit of a trip, so Connor wears his big sunhat and puts on a blanket. They stop for gas and he gets Connor a cherry-pineapple slushie. Connor holds it between his hands over his blanket _and_ while wearing his gloves, and it calms the surge of unease with how downright cute it is.

“Do you think Cassandra is sick?” Connor asks, all hidden behind his sunglasses and mask cowl.

“Oh. I don’t know, bud. You’d notice, right? The…” He wiggles his fingers in hopes Connor knows what he’s talking about. He can still remember the first time Connor seemed to read him like a book, his own blood drying on Connor’s gray fingers and the assuring whisper that he’d be okay.

“I would think so. If she smelled off, or felt off. But maybe I made a mistake somewhere.” Connor keeps gnawing on the straw of his drink and Hank’s thankful for it, he’d be grinding his teeth otherwise.

“Connor, deep breaths.” He tries his best to soothe, reaching over to squeeze his knee. “If she’s sick, we can ask Cole to take a look at her, if she wants. And… you have a way of making people better over time.”

Connor takes his breaths, just two of them, but that’s better than none. “I would do anything for her.”

Hank knows he would.

Sumo finds his way into the front seat at a stop sign, slumping himself against Connor’s side. They sit for a while with their heads together and Hank drives them down long stretches of road. Connor thinks about what could be waiting for them. He doesn’t enjoy that they’re not going to a usual place, somewhere he knows like a family home. He could care for whatever problem has arisen much better in a familiar place.

But they drive through town, out of town, and all the way up towards the coast. Connor says he likes the trees and water that they start to see, and Hank knows it’s for his benefit, to give him something to listen to. He’s thankful for it.

There’s a long private road they turn onto, taking it all the way, and Hank scoffs when they come up on a big contemporary house that’s on the edge of the water, sleek as all hell. “Don’t tell me your family owns like, seven summer houses or something.”

“Hank, please.” he says, “It’s only four.”

Cassandra’s car is in the driveway and they pull in alongside. She’s not waiting out here, so they walk up the ramp and Hank knocks on the door. They look out along the stretch of lake, the quiet waves that ripple the water. It’s peaceful here, and being two old men, they’d enjoy sitting out here to enjoy the scenery. If, y’know, this wasn’t absolutely nerve-wracking.

It takes a while for anyone to come to the door, enough where Hank has almost raised his hand to knock again, when it swings open. And where Hank has seen this face in a handful of places before, Connor has only seen it in one.

“Chloe?” Connor’s stalled in full confusion, looking at the gentle blond curls and bright eyes. The kind smile. She looks entirely like the woman in the photo on their mantle. “My brother’s wife…”

She tilts her head, just a little, and her smile spreads. The LED at her temple pings with clear blue light. “You’re Connor, then. Please come in, it’s more comfortable inside.”

Connor follows like he’s on skates, just sort of gliding while he tries to process. Hank takes his hand to steady him and he _grips_. “She… She’s the woman in the photos. She and Richard.”

“Con, she’s the first android to ever pass the Turing test.” Hank reminds him. He told Connor about Chloe, about her significance, but he never did show him her face. And Richard’s wedding photo wasn’t too clear, but those photos albums… those were. She might have looked older in Cassandra’s albums, but it was undoubtedly the same face. “At least, I… think that’s her.”

“I am.” Chloe says, over her shoulder as they walk the hall. “I’m the original. I wanted to be here for this.”

“But you’re not _her_.” Connor’s trying to come to grips with this, to try desperately to understand before he gets too in his feelings.

“No. But I owe her a great deal. Him, too.” She pauses so she can look at him, assessing him before she holds out her hand. “It’s alright, if you want to anyway.”

Connor pushes out a harsh sigh and gingerly touches her hand, then even more gentle when enveloping her in a hug. The echo of another family member is still part of the family. To her credit, she looks happy to have him. “You look so much like her.”

“They told me you’d be sentimental.” She smiles, patting his back, no doubt reading his odd temperature. “That’s okay, because I am, too.”

“Now I understand why Cassandra wanted me to come to this place.” He squeezes her once before letting her go, “Hank, isn’t she lovely?”

“I always thought so.” Hank agrees softly. They’re just racking up family wherever they go, it seems. It’s kind of heartwarming.

Chloe’s LED rolls yellow for a rotation while she chuckles, starting to lead them again. “Come this way, they're _impatiently_ waiting for us.”

They’re brought into a stylish sitting room— glass table, matching couches, plush white rug. Hank thinks the couch is worth more than his car. And he knows it is when he sees Cassandra hand in hand with Elijah fucking Kamski. The father of androids, wearing a simple sweater and _slippers_ (oh fuck oh shit, they’re in _his_ house!), hair tucked in a long french braid, letting his glasses fall down his nose when he laughs at something Cassandra’s said.

“Holy shit.” Hank whispers, and Connor looks at him in question. But Cassandra sees them arrive before he can say anything more, and gathers them both in hugs.

“I’m so glad you’re here. How are you?” She asks after Connor’s wellness as she helps him out of his cowl and fusses with his hair. He slips downward so she doesn’t have to reach so high.

“I was terribly worried, but I’ve seen the wonderful surprise.” He gestures to Chloe and it makes her smile. “Isn’t she fantastic?”

Cassandra looks so fond, “Fantastic, indeed. But I’d like you to meet someone else as well.”

She introduces them to Elijah, who’s been waiting very patiently with interest in his eyes. He shakes Connor’s hand and it’s like he lights up. “Incredible.”

“Elijah Kamski?” Connor squints, then turns towards Hank. “Familiar.”

“Man who made androids.” Hank reminds him. He’s just sort of accepting this is his life, yet again. They heard so many times that Richard liked technology, that learning new ones was a hobby of his. The jump from penned letters to video proved that easily, and evidently he knew Kamski enough to offer his wife’s kind visage. Like someone else he loved, she could live forever.

Connor brightens considerably, “You! Oh, a face to a name, how wonderful. You are quite the talent, sir.”

Elijah turns a little bashful, “Thank you. But I think the talent has passed over more to them.”

Chloe seems to really like that. Cassandra smiles and gestures to Hank, “And this is Hank Anderson, he—”

“Hank Anderson? The Lieutenant at the front of the Revolution.” Elijah shakes his hand vigorously. “I sent you flowers after your accident, I hope you’re well.”

“Oh, wow.” Hank blurts, laughing softly. “Yeah, I’m doing very well, thank you. I remember the flowers. Hyacinths.”

“I wanted them to be big.” Elijah admits with a grin.

They sit for a bit, it seems it’d be good for everyone to get acclimated. Coffee and snacks are provided, by another woman that looks like Chloe, to Connor’s absolute delight. He praises her too, after a round of thanks. Elijah talks animatedly about the technology involved, but it veers off into his admiration for the evolution and the accomplishments he’s always so happy to hear about. He has a room dedicated to various achievements and mementos— he says ‘room’, it’s more like a museum on one side of his home.

There’s also a lot of questions asked about Connor, that he answers as well as he can. Hank and Cassandra are there to chime in. Connor's wholly more interested in information about his family. Elijah explains that he met Richard very late in his life, and Richard had funded a great deal of the projects that led to the world they have now. He offered not only monetary help, but spent a good deal of time with Elijah too, so interested in the whats and hows. They became companions.

“His wife had passed, and I let him pour into the work. He was an accomplished artist, he often sculpted while… well, I guess while I sculpted technology. His hands shook by then, but he made a self portrait for me once, of his youth. Of when he looked like you.” Elijah explains, taking a moment to stop and look at Connor again. It’s like he can’t believe it. “I donated most of them to a museum a number of years ago.”

The anonymous donor. Connor squeezes Hank’s hand. “Yes, I saw them. Thank you, for indulging him. He gathered such love for things, he focused so wholly.”

“He did, and if anything, the thanks should go to him. Without him, I don’t know if my research would’ve seen much light. It set me up for good luck… He was good luck.” Elijah replies, then he takes a moment to think. He looks _fond_. Richard was so loved. He sets down his coffee, looking towards Cassandra. “Ah, Andra?”

“Richard would call her that.” Connor says affectionately.

Elijah ducks his head even as he stands, adjusting his glasses. “I admit I picked it up from him. He never quieted about his family, as you can tell.”

Connor stands when everyone else does— he wonders if their visit has come to an end, or if they’re going to be given a tour. He secretly wants a tour. But then Cassandra comes over and takes both of his hands, holding them close. They both fiddle with each other’s rings. “Uncle, you’ll follow me, won’t you?”

“Anywhere.” he promises, and he means it. She gives him a small smile and leads him around the couch, to a frosted glass door that Chloe slides open. It’s a beautiful room, with wide windows and a fuckton of equipment meant for androids. Lots of white and chrome, but there’s a woven rug and other patches of color strewn around, where it’s practical.

“Wow.” Hank says, looking out at the incredible view of clear water and cloudy blue sky. He notices they’ve tinted the glass for Connor’s comfort.

“What is all this?” Connor smiles, moving to one side of the room to look at a digital manual.

“This is where we do maintenance, mostly.” Chloe explains, watching with amusement when Connor gets excited over the big screens responding to his touch.

“Exciting!” He shuffles around and lifts up a chassis plate, inspecting it with interest. “What is this? The material is delightful.”

“That’s my old stomach plate.” Chloe chuckles.

“Oh! Apologies.” He sets it down bashfully, clasping his hands behind his back. He’s more careful with things he reaches out to touch now, looking around the room politely even if he doesn’t know what half of this stuff is. Chloe turns on one of the diagnostic monitors and Hank comes over to quietly ask her about it, mentioning a friend of Cole’s. Sumo is taking in the new surroundings, wandering in with his tail gently wagging.

“Are you comfortable, uncle?” Cassandra asks, and Connor turns to give her an appreciative nod. He looks over a mini fridge with bags of Thirium inside, and he feels a funny connection with those. There are tools for android care and groupings of wires all strewn about, which he can all look at and ask after. But he comes to pause in front of a large case in the middle of the room, because it brings up an odd feeling in him. An _old_ feeling. The shape of it… makes him uneasy.

“Connor.” Cassandra’s voice reaches him through the buzz that’s picked up in his ears, “Why don’t I take a moment to explain?”

“What is this?” he asks, reading the little display that says the contents are secure and stable. And when he presses his hand to the sleek surface, the fog clears over the top panel.

Hank feels Connor scream more than he hears it.

He feels it rattle his ribcage and his body moves before his mind has fully caught up, reaching for his lover as he staggers back. Sumo barks urgently, trying to brace to be a cushion if Connor falls. Connor fumbles to grab for Hank, weak in the goddamn knees. All his energy goes into the words out of his mouth, deaf to his own ears. “No! No, please…”

Hank doesn’t understand until he peers over the edge of the containment unit. And then he fucking does. Suddenly it’s the portrait all over again.

“Holy shit.” It steals the breath right from him. Laid into a laser-cut cushion and encapsulated like an alien in a sci-fi film… is none other than Richard Stern.

“Why play with my heart this way?” Connor croaks, like he can’t catch his breath. He’s half hanging in Hank’s arms, the image at his eyes every time he blinks. “Is it not enough, I see him on the television? Is it not enough, I see him in my dreams? Why this?”

Cassandra looks into the case for a long moment before she snaps out of it, coming to comfort her family. “I’m sorry… I’m sorry, I was supposed to guide you into this better.”

“He’s like I knew him.” Connor whispers, something crawling up his throat. Despair, hollowness. “I saw my Richard age. No one can simply take that away. He _earned_ those years, Cassandra.”

“He chose it, uncle.” she tells him, “For you. He chose that face… he chose when he looked like you.”

“I modeled the features after the sculpture he made for me.” Elijah explains, trying to be helpful. “The one in the museum.”

“‘He chose’.” Connor repeats, shaking his head. “He’s _gone_. My brother is gone, he wrote to me on his deathbed. As much as I never wanted to hear it. But he was at peace, so I need to be at peace with it, too.”

“You don’t understand.” Cassandra tries.

“Mr. Kamski produced someone like Chloe, I understand. They may look like him, but I still know he’s gone.” His voice breaks on the last word and Hank instinctively grips him closer, just a fraction. He looks to Elijah, “I know you did this out of love. Hearing you speak about him, I know you loved him… But ghosts won’t help you heal.”

“Let me wake him up.” Elijah says softly. There’s a pleading look in his eye. “Let me wake him, you’ll understand.”

Connor glances over the edge, to a face that looks so peaceful in sleep. His eyes start to water. “I couldn’t give that permission…”

“Please.” Elijah begs, reaching towards the monitors. “Just be here when he wakes up.”

He doesn’t want to. He wants so badly to tell Hank to take him home. It’s taken so much for him to find comfort in a world without everything he ever knew. It’s taken much more for him to come to terms with outlasting his baby brother.

But the problem is, he cares. He loves his grandniece and already he cares for Elijah and Chloe. Because Richard did. And he’ll always be part of Richard, especially to them. Things and people that were important to Richard, will always be important to him, too. Even in the barest of ways, even in just appreciation. These people are part of Richard too, and looking upon the face he outlived may let the guilt finally kill him. But he’ll do it for them.

He makes himself shy from Hank’s embrace, to stand there tall like a solid support, and give a tight nod. “I'll stay here. I will do that, for you.”

Cassandra reaches up to cup his cheek, knowing this is a big ask. “I promise—”

“And I will do this for you.” he whispers, measured, letting himself pack away into little boxes where he hopes the hurt won’t find him. “As his granddaughter.”

She looks sad for him, and he wishes she didn’t.

Elijah starts inputting commands into the computers, and soon after the case gently clicks open. Chloe takes care lifting the lid, looking upon the man she knows so much and so little. She observes the family, with Cassandra anxious, and Connor looking like he’s preparing to be shot. Hank doesn’t touch him. He knows it’s not the place for that, but he stands at Connor’s side like an option, signalling that he _can_ , at any moment. A welcomed solace for when it’s over.

“Con, honey.” His voice is so gentle. “You’re safe, I _promise_ it’s— Fuck, it’s not fine. I know it’s not fine. But I see you. I see you, though.”

All Connor can do is nod again.

“Startup sequence completed. Suspending prolonged stasis…” Elijah’s saying, his fingers tapping keys and touching the displays. He pauses for a moment, like he’s gathering himself. “It’s been a long sleep.”

They all stand there, peering in like a group ready to mourn at a funeral. It doesn’t help that Richard looks absolutely perfect. The dark LED at his temple flickers for a few heart-wrenching moments, and then does three lazy spins of white.

Connor feels something inside him break and turn to heavy stone when Richard’s brow creases. His chest rises, his mouth twists, and a soft grunt rumbles in his throat. As if it's casual. Like he’s not just simply _waking from the fucking dead_. It’s scary and _foreign_ even if Richard is so familiar, watching him collect himself before trying to sit up.

“Carefully. Careful.” Elijah whispers, reaching to cradle Richard’s head and clasp their hands together. “Run through each thing first, get yourself acclimated.”

“Elijah?” Richard asks, and it’s spine-chilling, hearing his voice crystal clear. Connor’s not even breathing anymore. Elijah helps him sit up, assessing his joints as he swings his legs around the edge. “Is that really you?”

“It is, I promise.” Elijah says, sounding so fond and the slightest bit choked up. He holds on as Richard stands, “Calibrate your legs? Okay. All sturdy? Are they good?”

“Elijah, you look wonderful.” Richard cups the side of his face and leans to press a kiss to his cheek. Kamski huffs in a long-suffering way, giving a look that says he wants an answer. It’s the first time Richard smiles, when he confirms things. “Good, yes.”

When Richard looks up, it’s like a moment frozen in time. There’s suddenly nobody else once his eyes land on Connor, and he’s immediately standing on his own, making himself move the few steps closer.

It’s the same smile. The one that bursts from a stoic face, that’s like turning on a thousand lights and opening windows to warm summer air. “Connor… Is this real?”

Connor cracks all around his statued edges. Richard, standing here unburdened by time. Reaching out for him. No longer a human scent… but green, of the earth, the LED at his temple jumping with white light like the blurred ring of the moon. His mind keeps ringing _this isn’t real, he’s gone, your brother is gone_.

The breath shudders from him so violently, hearing his name. The voice is perfect. It’s all perfect. The more steps Richard takes, the more he feels he can’t hold himself here. He’s _scared_. He’s desperately trying to hide it, but he’s scared.

“Connor?” Richard whispers, that familiar concerned pinch in his brow. He could always tell when something didn’t sit right.

“Yes?” He hears it in his ears as if he's not the one saying it, it’s a little too loud. His eyes are watering against his will, jaw clenched so tightly he may crack a tooth. “I’m real.”

It’s too close, it’s too familiar, it’s too much. A small cry wrenches from his throat when Richard takes him by the shoulders. The Connor that existed months ago would have collapsed into the embrace, but that was a Connor that wanted nothing more than go _back_ . He’s made his peace, it’s _too much_.

Hank tenses at Connor’s side, hearing the distress. Richard looks stricken. “It’s been so long… You’re so cold, I’d forgotten.”

“You… You’d forgotten?” His voice is a mess, his body coiling up so tightly. “Please, don’t. It’s enough that you have his face, please don’t.”

“My brother.” Richard pleads, squeezing him gently.

“Please let go of me.” he croaks.

Richard shakes his head. He takes Connor’s face between his hands, resting their foreheads together. “Connor… Find it in yourself to be calm. I’m right here, I promised I wouldn’t leave you behind.”

“My brother is dead.” he whispers, shaking fingers curling around Richard’s forearms.

“I’m _here_.” Richard insists, pushing away a traitorous tear as it falls. “I said—”

“As if you’ve lived all those years? Stop this.” He grips those arms tighter, forcing himself to look him in the eye, “I know what the light means, Richard!”

And god, it is so shaking to say his name and mean it to be _addressing_.

“Do I have—?” Richard reaches up to his temple, feeling the light divot of his LED. He chuckles breathlessly, amazed. He holds Connor close, like he can tap him into his mind. “No, listen now. I’m in here, Connor. Remember our forest? How we ran? Remember the mud on our shoes, the water in the hems of our shorts? The apples I stood on your shoulders to pick because I used to be much too small.”

Connor feels himself sob. “You can’t.”

“I can. I can.” Richard whispers, nodding. “The apples wished for honey but we were always too afraid to bring a jar.”

“We thought we’d break it.” Connor feels the rough prickle all over his face, in his chest, of his body wearing out of shock. “We played so roughly.”

“You always took such good care of me.” Richard sniffles, “When you’d save me an apple for later. When you brought me along on your trips to show me the world. When you drank and in the absence of pain, I could be lulled to sleep.”

It’s like the glass he’s put up between himself and the situation shatters completely. No one could know that. _No one could know that_.

“How could you…?” He knows what’s ringing in his very soul, but he can’t let himself think it.

“I’m in here.” Richard promises, eyes wet and boring into Connor desperately. “I’m in here. I wouldn’t allow the world to take all of me, not while you were left behind. I left you so much of my life, but it wasn’t enough.”

“Shit.” Hank whispers at their side, shocked beyond belief. “He couldn’t know unless he’s real. He’s just as real, he’d have to be. It’s like you said, Con… from the goddamn soil.”

Hearing someone else say it makes Connor’s whole body give out. And he thinks he’ll find the floor, he’s met the floor too many times in his life to think any different— but he's enveloped, strong arms pulling him in and tucked into that one goddamn shoulder because Richard decided to grow taller than him.

“It’s alright.” Richard soothes, LED spinning with blue. He spares Hank a glance, like he’s thankful, and to Hank it’s the wildest shit, having the supposedly dead brother of the man he loves look him in the face like that.

“‘Dear brother, I have lived a life’.” Connor recites through a sob, muffled against Richard’s shoulder. He’s squeezed closer, with a soft huff of broken laughter.

“‘Even now, I am comfortable’.” Richard continues, Connor lifting his head to look. “‘Surrounded by family. It’s funny, that I get to see them all. I owe that to you’.”

Richard looks right at him when he says he owes him.

“My brother.” Connor declares in the most broken way, reaching up with shaking hands to really see Richard’s face. His light eyes and wobbling smile and the three distinct freckles across his cheek. “You really chose to look like this.”

Richard laughs, tucking himself into Connor’s embrace. And he fits the same. It actually is him. Like muscle memory, his hand comes up to cup the back of his head like he always has, since the first time he held Richard as a baby. It’s now where he can turn and look over the bulk of Richard’s shoulders at Hank’s amazed, beautiful face— and get to say what he has about every family member that’s embraced him. “My beautiful impossible brother, Hank. How _wonderful_.”

Hank shakes his head, heart still beating out of his goddamn chest. “I’d say, bud.”

Elijah hovers close, looking very much like he wants to ask a plethora of questions. “Nothing scrambled, then? We expected a few memories, or ‘reels’ of memories, to be foggy in the transfer. We’ll do a wellness check. Chloe?”

“Chloe?” Richard repeats, lifting his head in surprise. He turns and finds Elijah’s gentle concern, but also Chloe, in all her radiant and capable glory. And Richard’s shoulders drop slightly, his face turns to awe and settled sadness and wonder, “Oh, my beautiful wife.”

“I was modeled after her.” Chloe tells him, reaching out because she’s sentimental, too. She’s heard so many beloved stories. The way he clasps her hand in both of his own and presses a reverent kiss to her knuckles is very proper and makes clear how devoted he was to his wife. “I’m happy to bear a resemblance, and glad to finally meet you.”

“As am I. I remember hearing his dreams about building you.” Richard says, with stars in his goddamn eyes.

“I can’t wait to hear them.” She grins.

Chloe goes to help Elijah with the systems check, and Richard should probably be sitting down patiently for it, but he’s too enthralled by the world. His whole focus, just as Connor had said. Cassandra, all this time, has been very quiet. Standing there with her hands clasped gently over her mouth, following Richard’s every move. She’s processing much better, having known this information, but it’s still a huge deal to see her grandfather after so long, looking so much younger than he ever did while she knew him.

Richard looks at her with a sweet smile and building curiosity, recognizing her more and more with every second that passes. By the time he’s reaching out to hold her at the shoulders, he’s struck with awe, the question still lingering. “No…”

“Perhaps.” She says, giving a quirky little smile while holding back tears.

His smile spreads, and one of those small full-bodied wiggles spring up, like he can’t hold all of his feelings in a stationary body. “Oh, my… Andra? My little Andra? Look how you’ve grown!”

She sobs softly, and Hank hands her a tissue. “I’m a grandma!”

“And overwhelmingly lovely!” Richard exclaims, his own tears spilling over again. He gathers her in a hug, very careful and gentle, “My granddaughter, my partner in crime and adventure. I’ve missed you so much.”

“I found him.” Connor hears her whisper into his shirt, “I brought you both home.”

They take Richard into the sitting room and he’s put right in the middle of the couch. Elijah has to move the table, so he can sit close enough to be within Richard’s arm length. Richard’s a touchy person. Sumo keeps looking at him with such curiosity, but the dog’s focus mostly goes to Connor, who’s still trembling a fair amount. One hand settled under Sumo’s fuzzy head and the other held in Hank’s, repeatedly being smoothed.

Elijah’s explaining - in the simplest terms he can manage, they think, in the midst of his excitement - how Richard was preserved. That the technology was obviously new, experimental, and no one else would be an expert to call for help. But Richard had seen so much progress throughout his life, and was nearing the end, anyway. If there was a chance, he’d say yes. And he did. He’s blown away to know the data that came from transferring his consciousness at the end of his life paved the way for Elijah’s breakthroughs of artificial intelligence.

“The first android ever created… wasn’t an android at all.” Elijah’s brimming with passion, “Richard was the template for how to graft artificial intelligence, on how synapses - organic or synthetic - would react.”

Richard lets Elijah poke and prod as much as he’d like. Connor sees he’s just happy to be taking it all in again. To be awake, and alive. He knows how that feels, better than anyone. Part of him wonders if this is how Hank felt, this stirring in his chest, when Hank found him in the coffin and just accepted the insane reality of the new path of his life. He’s going to do his best to follow in Hank’s footsteps, and do the thing where he radically accepts instead of spiraling. It seems a good tactic.

Once the excitement starts to wane into comfort, Connor realizes he’s fucking _tired_. He’s gained a lot of stamina for activities over these months, but he’s an old man, he still gets worn out pretty easily. He’s leaning more into Hank’s supportive embrace, finding his eyes heavy.

“Con? You wanna head home?” Hank whispers, gently nudging him with a shoulder.

“Perhaps.” he murmurs, looking around to see his sleepiness has already caught attention, “Forgive me, I do tire easily.”

“Has this been too much?” Richard asks, reaching to hold his hand. “Well, of course, a bit… but you know.”

He smiles softly, “Richard… would you like to go home?”

The look of awe compares to nothing else.

Elijah doesn’t want Richard to go, it’s kind of clear. For more than scientific reasons. He watched over Richard for years while he slept. Put him in his body, updated his software (and hardware) when he could, checked in regularly, and just… looked after a dear friend. Richard holds him for several minutes, swaying them gently, murmuring things many can’t hear. Connor can, but he pretends he doesn’t.

Sumo leads them out and Connor makes it maybe three steps before Richard is letting out a horrified gasp and pulling him back under the front door’s awning. “Heaven’s sake, the sun! I didn’t realize we were in the middle of the day!”

Richard’s trying to shield him. And Connor can’t help but feel overjoyed, wrapping his arms around his brother in a firm hug. “I’m alright. You don’t need to be afraid.”

“Have _you_ forgotten in your old age?” Richard asks incredulously, “You’re far too unconcealed. These clothes, while very future-forward of you, brother, don’t cover you like the ones we had when we were young.”

“I’m just fine, I assure you. I have special layers.” he promises, patting Richard’s tense back. He used to be terrified of Connor bursting into flames. No matter how irrational the fear, he even had nightmares about it. And Connor couldn’t comfort his own fears, so he comforted Richard’s instead. “I came here in the sunlight.”

Richard can’t grasp that too well, “You… What?”

Hank slips off his coat, setting a tentative hand on Richard’s shoulder. “We’ll get him home alright.”

“Hank.” Connor gives him a look that conveys how unnecessary that is, but Hank tips his head towards Richard, who’s taking the coat like a lifeline.

“Thank you, Mr. Anderson.” Richard gives him a gentle squeeze at the wrist before blanketing Connor with care, sounding relieved at the assist.

Old habits (and fears) die hard.

Cassandra gets a round of goodbyes before they part ways and pile into the car. Sumo’s all too happy to sit with his new friend in the backseat, looking at him with those big eyes that just sorta make you fall in love. Certainly worked on Connor. Richard does hover, watching for any signs of Connor in distress, and meets Hank’s eyes in the rearview when Connor reaches over to hold hands.

Hank’s never been scared of inlaws. He got along really well with his ex’s family, and still does! But a brother-in-law that literally defied death to make sure Connor would be cared for? Who is now not only 153 years old, lived through a shit ton, but— has a hard as fucking steel android body that could yeet even Hank in all his bulk without breaking a sweat? Well…

Luckily, Richard just looks surprised. Kind of. There’s something else there but as familiar as his face is, it’s not enough to know the specific emotions yet. He clears his throat awkwardly as they get underway, “So uh, you know how to bake bread?”


	25. forever and a day, for a warm life

Richard seeing the house again is very much like a ghost haunting the area. He’s too graceful and just the right amount of stilted, and Hank swears these Sterns are based on drama because it’s _so much_. But he reasons if he hadn’t seen a home drenched in so much history in over a hundred years, maybe he’d be like that, too.

It helps that they step into the foyer and Richard scoffs at his own portrait. Hank tries not to laugh.

Like habit, Richard goes to immediately shut the curtains before he sees the film. He runs his hand over it and there’s a little uptick in the motions of his LED, before he looks gently surprised and steps away. Hank thinks he’s realizing that he doesn’t have to go through a wellness checklist to make things safe for Connor, so he sends Sumo over to provide a little comfort.

“You’ve redecorated.” Richard says, an amount of awe and hesitation held in his words.

Connor’s pulling off his cowl and kicking out of his shoes, “We did! What do you think?”

“I didn’t expect…” Richard looks around while one hand gently pets Sumo’s head. “I don’t know what I expected. Not for someone to make this their home.”

“Glad I did.” Hank says, even while he’s wondering if this is a family thing, if he should leave them alone. “Ah… Can you drink?”

It takes Richard a moment but he nods, like he had to confirm it. Hank’s gonna try to duck out quietly, give them time while he fiddles in the kitchen. And Connor, he should’ve known, leans up to press a kiss to his cheek once he’s out of his shirts, “Come right back, we can show him around.”

Because Hank _is_ family.

“He’s kind.” Richard says, after Hank’s disappeared to the kitchen.

Connor wants to tell him how much. “He is.”

“He has the deed to the house?” He comes over to gently touch the pink spots on his brother’s shoulders and arms, “You’re burned.”

“He does, but he treats it still as if it’s mine, too. And stop your worrying,” Connor reaches out to hover his fingers near Richard’s chest, to see if he can read him like he used to, like he can with the others. The regular signs aren’t there, but he feels something crackle against his fingers. _Life_. “I’m perfectly fine. Not even the sun can do more than a kiss today, not with the joy I feel.”

“I’ve missed hearing you talk like that… I lost some of that along the way.” he admits.

“It’s not a loss, no one sounds as I do these days.” Connor crouches down to help Sumo out of his vest, giving his cheeks a little squish. “I’ve learned and grown a great deal, too.”

Richard watches him with the dog and raises his brows, “I can certainly see that.”

Connor just smiles. He signs that Sumo’s a good boy and gets to enjoy seeing a full-body wiggle before the dog is off, probably to dribble water everywhere at his bowl.

“I never thought I’d see you with a dog, they always frightened you.” Richard remarks, a little amazed.

“I’m different now.” He says proudly, leading Richard towards the living room, “Would you like a wifi?”

When Hank brings tea - in the old, proper tea cups because he’s trying to impress - Connor is almost asleep on the couch, answering questions as Richard inspects the room and lists things off. It’s weird, it’s so fucking weird. But it’s the best thing in the world. Connor perks up somewhat, draped in his blanket, “Hank, my love. Thank you. Is it lemon?”

Richard gives Hank another one of those looks. He smiles softly, “Yeah bud, it is… Hey, how about you tell him…?”

“That you’re closer than just two friends?” Richard finishes, taking a cup when it’s presented. The nostalgia of always seeing these unused in a cabinet slaps him but he won’t let himself be deterred. “I knew you were his the very moment I laid eyes on you.”

Hank goes a nice shade of red, “Ah…”

“Oh! How could you?” Connor asks so much more casually than Hank feels.

Richard smiles, “I’ve seen the way people look at you all my life, brother.”

“That’s not an answer!” Connor blows a raspberry but then very sweetly accepts the tea Hank gives him.

“It was the way you looked back at him.” Richard doesn’t say he knows the ring too, because he truly did categorize the devotion and safety in Connor’s eyes while looking at Hank first. Plus, it makes his brother get a little huffy and bashful, and that’s always funny.

Hank, on the other hand, looks like his heart may melt right out of him. Such a soft man in a strong exterior…

Connor starts getting sleepy very quickly, now that he’s home and settled. To the point where Hank scoops up his tea when he’s no longer really holding it, and he’s trying to blink the fatigue from his eyes when he attempts to get up. “I promised him a tour.”

Hank maneuvers him back towards the couch, swaddling him in his damn comforter. He coos when Connor weakly protests, “Hey, I’ll do it. You’ve done enough, you’re up past your time. I want you around for dinner.”

“You’re dinner.” Connor mumbles sleepily, and Hank chuckles.

“With butter and carrots.” He promises, watching his sweet old man conk out right then and there. He gives Richard a soft, slightly awkward smile. “I can show you around, if you’re still up for it. And I have a pack of Thirium in the fridge, if you… do that sort of thing, too.”

“I guess I do now.” Richard gives a light chuckle.

Richard knows the house, but he still humors Hank’s slow walk around the place. Hank talks about the upgrades and changes, shows off the newly upholstered chair they just finished, the sunroom and how it’s now a shade room.

“He could never come in here after his change.” Richard says, fingers trailing along a wide window.

“He spends a lot of time in here now, mostly near sunset.” he replies, feeling a little well of pride.

“You did this for him.” Richard looks at him, and it’s not a question.

And he shrugs, because it’s an easy thing to do. “It’s what he deserves.”

Richard stands at the threshold of his bedroom for a very long, very still minute. Hank stands with him, and then stays outside when Richard does a small lap. Smoothing his comforter, pressing his fingers to long-dried globs of paint, touching the cigarette case on the nightstand.

“Has he been full of nerves?” he asks, gently, reminiscing over the old cigarettes.

“Some days.” Hank nods, “Especially in the beginning, but there’s less days like that now. He’s been reading some books, and my kid’s a nurse, so he’s done pretty well at stabilizing himself.”

Richard gathers the information with a small raise of his brows. “A nurse? Is that why he looks so healthy?”

“Cole doesn’t know, but he thinks Connor’s got some sort of deficiency. He gets transfusions every week, and…”

“He feeds from you.”

“Whenever he needs.” Hank promises, giving a little smile. “And when he wants. We’ve realized it helps if he gets a full stomach before the night before he goes outside during the day.”

“Ingenious… I never thought I’d see him in the sunlight again.” he remarks quietly, settling onto his bed with the familiarity of someone plopping down onto their own property.

Hank wonders about his memories. Because he’s seen Richard act like an old man too, but this looks like a 30-something coming back to his childhood home. He doesn’t want this to become sad reminiscing, so he slings out their half-baked idea, “We’ve been looking into going to the beach.”

Richard gives a ‘pffft’ of surprise, “You’re joking!”

“Nope,” He leans against the door frame, grinning like a bastard. “I’m thinkin’ of buying stock in sunscreen.”

“Would it be possible?” Richard asks, then amends before Hank can further make a joke about sunscreen, “I mean, a trip to the beach. Do you think he could really survive that?”

“Richard— if I can call you Richard?” He’s called him Richard so casually for so long, but saying it to his face is kind of different? Doesn’t help that he’s got eyes that could sear Hank’s soul, honestly. “After everything he’s been through, I don’t think a little sand could ruin him. Or, rather, he wouldn’t let it ruin him.”

“Are you saying he’s made of pure will?” Richard’s starting to smile.

“Pure will, and a full belly of wine and… not wine.” he says, resolutely. And Richard seems to agree.

The rest of the tour lasts maybe fifteen minutes. They see the other bedrooms, where Richard side-eyes Hank and asks very politely if Connor likes new age beds instead of his elegantly hand-stuffed mattress. Hank doesn’t need to get dunked on in his own home… but he guesses it’s Richard’s home too, so. Roast away.

Hank shows him the garden, and watches the LED at his temple pulse yellow while hearing that Connor made the oven all by himself, by hand. That’s where he marvels, where he burns bright and inspects the project from head to toe. Where he says he wants his first meal in his new body to be from this oven. From his brother’s art.

And then, his hands smeared with soot from touching the oven too much, says he’d rather return to his brother than see anything more. Because it never really was the house he wanted to come back to, it was always Connor. Hank just gets him some clothes from the laundry room, in case he wants to change out of the generic shirt and pants Elijah put him in.

“Thank you, Mr. Anderson. I will later, I’d rather just… sit with him, for now.” Richard tells him, settled gingerly next to Connor on the couch.

“Just call me Hank. Only nurses and kids call me Mr. Anderson.” he smiles, putting a blanket out for Richard too, just in case.

“Back in my day, a first name basis was very personal.”

“Yeah, real scandalous. I’m a regular harlot.” He shrugs and waves it off, turning to go wash the dishes. Like a normal person, that hasn’t just met the android brother of his vampire lover, returned from the dead, the both of them. Fuck’s sake.

“Maybe that’s why he likes you.” Richard says, “He always craved being close to people, even when it was hard for him.”

Hank wants to tell him all the moments where Connor’s shown such love, so freely. But he just feels his shoulders relax as he shuffles from the room.

Sumo follows Hank around for a bit, giving him looks, as if waiting for explanations. So Hank gives him a pepperoni slice and takes one for himself, and runs through the day’s events. “Connor, our resident old man, found his brother again today. Who is also… not entirely human anymore. So, I guess we’re a little family now… An android, a vampire, an old man and a good dog.”

Sumo wiggles happily. It seems he likes the sound of that.

“And I don’t…” He shows Sumo his left hand, and the dog gently puts his nose under Hank’s palm. Soft. “I think he proposed and I think I said yes. I don’t know if I fit in my old tux. He knows more about fashion than me, maybe he’ll help me pick a new one… I wanna look nice for him.”

He thinks Connor would tell him he looks nice anyway, at this point, even if whatever he wears is atrocious.

Sumo leaves him when he does a second wave of light housework to tire himself out. But when he migrates back to the living room, he finds the whole gang. Sumo’s tucked into the overhang from Connor’s blanket, and Richard is slumped gently against Connor’s left side. Hank finds it easy to settle on Connor’s right.

When Connor wakes to his brother on his left, his lover on his right, and his dog across his feet… it makes a few tears fall, happily, some immense relief that it is all still real. That it’s not one of those fever dreams he had while locked away, curled on pillows meant to hold empty heads. Hank is close enough to lean into and it’s so easy to do. He feels a little guilty when Hank stirs, but it seems like he’s been sleeping light, just in case anyone needs him. Such a sweetheart. He feels Hank’s fingers thread into his hair.

“Sorry to wake you.” he whispers, letting his eyes slip closed again, just for a moment, to savor the touch. Then he takes Hank’s hand in his own, pressing a kiss to his palm.

“I was already awake.” Hank gives that little white lie, voice all gentle with sleep. He drops his forehead to Connor’s temple, obviously still tired.

“Mhmm.” he hums, kissing each of Hank’s fingertips before he guides that hand to rest against his chest. Hank scoots closer, his other arm wiggling under Connor’s back. It creates a lovely warm brand where the blankets have parted. “Thank you, for yesterday.”

“There was a lot of yesterday, sweetheart.” Hank whispers, slumping to rest his head on Connor’s shoulder.

“For all of it. Standing with me, speaking up, helping Richard and I… Showing him around when I couldn’t stay awake.” he explains, laying his head on his lover’s. He gathers Hank’s hand in his, tenderly massaging the knobs of his knuckles. He smooths the outer edge of the ring. “For saying yes, even when I am too impulsive and have trouble being appropriately gentle.”

“I thought it was plenty gentle.” Hank’s voice rumbles so soothingly, right at his jaw. “If anything… thank _you_. For wanting this ol’ thing.”

“I want you so much.” he whispers, feeling it in his damn bones.

“I didn’t think this would ever happen to me again.” Hank whispers, too.

“Me either.”

“Being engaged?”

Connor smiles softly, “Being in love.”

“Oh, Connor.” Hank sighs with such emotion, nuzzling his shoulder. “Yeah… I get ya.”

“I love you.” He says it like he’s curling a prayer on his tongue.

Hank picks his head up for the simple pleasure of murmuring into Connor’s ear the way he likes. “Devoted.”

That gentle hum rumbles in Connor’s throat, and Hank thinks the sound could soothe him from anything. Connor squeezes his hand, and Hank feels him shift just so, finding further comfort against him. His other hand goes to his brother’s hair, smoothing it back in such a familiar way. His voice is caught up. “You’ve given me so much.”

“So have you.” Hank reminds him.

“I’m going to give to you for as long as I live.”

“We don’t know how long that is, Connor.”

“How does forever and a day sound? For a warm life.”

Hank feels his throat squeeze before he can get out any words, such a fucking old fool for this impossible man. He curls his hand at Connor’s chest, around where his slow heart beats against his ribs, and the low choked noise he makes, Connor seems to understand as if he spoke anyway.

They’ve settled into each other, wholly comfortable and perhaps again ready for sleep. In a few hours, they’ll try getting up again, and start a new day. But when things feel like this, it’s easy to indulge. It’s time well spent. Hank listens to the rise and fall of Connor’s chest, puts himself into a light meditation where he tunes in to each part of his body and categorizes his thoughts for the day.

The one thought occurs to him at breakneck speed.

“Oh fuck, I haven’t told Cole.”


	26. hank and the family you find

They have a full day of Richard getting reacquainted with life, new and old. They visit Beaumont, both of them, and the reactions are on two wildly opposite spectrums. The 20-something is a lot more loose in the joints and more prone to dropping into a squat as his customary surprise reaction. The elder Beaumont greets her father like he’d only been out on business, as if she’d been waiting for him, and he gathers her close as if she’s still that sixteen year old girl saying she wanted the dress in the window.

Hank fucking cries. He turns into a sobbing baby. Even more when Monty lets them know that Charles is climbing onto the earliest flight from Spain to come home and see his papa. Connor kisses a tear off his cheek and whispers to him, tells him all the family they have, how happy they are, that he should sit down and he’ll be given a snack.

During the ride home, Richard leans over the front seat to thank Hank for bringing them around, and to hum about how he misses driving. And that’s how Hank finds them an empty parking lot and puts Richard in the driver’s seat, telling him it’s a damn old car and to be careful with it.

“Imagine me, older than hell itself and behind the wheel again. I wonder if they’d give my license back! Now that I’m not looking through triple bifocals.”

That’s reassuring.

But Richard does well! He used to drive quite a bit, with a number of cars as technology advanced. He says he was one of the first to jump in behind self-driving cars. He maneuvers the vehicle with relative ease, like he belongs in the seat. It’s nice to see him happy about yet another thing.

It kinda falls apart when Connor gets curious. Because if Richard’s hyping something up so much, it has to be at least okay, right? Connor, who has never driven a car, ever. He clung to the belief that horses were much better, that you could love a horse and not a car, therefore you would care for it better. He does genuinely like auto-taxi #126 because that’s the one that always comes to get him, but he won’t tell anyone that.

Connor steps on the gas and within fifteen seconds he has both his brother and fiancé grabbing for the wheel from the passenger and back seat, exclaiming wildly. Sumo’s having the time of his life, tongue wagging while the breeze zooms across his face. It’s a moment of Connor doubling down on his stance of never learning how to drive. So, Hank takes them home in time for Cole’s appointment with Connor.

Richard stops abruptly with a pouch of Thirium half raised to his mouth when he’s told about it, and scurries from the kitchen to the foyer to see what Cole’s treatment is going to entail for his brother.

Cole walks in and looks from Connor, to Richard, to Richard’s portrait, and back. It doesn’t help that he’s wearing the same fucking type of shirt as in the painting. They’re drama and they don’t know subtlety. Hank walks over to kiss Cole’s cheek and lead him towards the living room, “Hey, kid. Connor’s brother came to visit. Weird resemblance, huh?”

“Yeah.” Cole murmurs, deciding he’s going to simply carry on despite the wildly contradicting information. He nods to Richard as Hank corrals him past, “Nice to meet you, I’m Cole. Hey, Connor? How’ve you been feeling?”

“Oh, I’ve been well. Fatigue still, and my joints have been giving me quiet issue.” Connor explains, already shifting his shawl and rolling up his sleeve. They start setting up almost on auto-pilot, they’ve done this so many times.

“Are you taking the supplements I gave you? The vitamin D and Calcium?”

“Yes, of course. One each, for every day.”

“Not two of the D?”

Connor gasps softly and reaches for his notebook, “Oh, no. Just the one. I’ll rectify that in the morning.”

Richard watches them move around like a dance. Cole dips away to wash his hands, Connor sets up the IV stand with standard fluids, Hank starts taking out the various pouches from the biohazard box. Richard hovers nearby, concern on his face, trying to read the labels. He leans towards Hank while Connor has his back turned, “What can I do?”

Hank slows when he sees Richard’s tension. He keeps his voice low for the illusion of secrecy. “There’s blankets in the dryer that he’s gonna need, and a glass bottle of juice on the middle shelf in the fridge.”

He nods seriously and goes to collect everything he’s been told, happy to be able to help. Part of him feels a bit lost when he used to be the go-to for caretaking, but he’s so proud that Connor has the self-sufficiency and resources he does. Never would they have had the setup he’s seeing come together. He makes Connor a cocoon of blankets and throw pillows, and brings a nice glass of the very odd looking juice— a scan tells him there’s all kinds of fiber and vitamins inside it, which explains the thickness. He turns his nose up at it slightly, but it could be delicious to his brother.

Cole sits on the coffee table with his gloves on and a needle in hand, and Connor’s happy to have Richard come sit beside him on the couch. The IV goes in smoothly, with Cole’s usual finesse and he smiles softly, watching Richard’s stony curiosity. “Cole is very talented, he finds a vein every time.”

“What, like it’s hard?” Cole teases, hooking him up to the tube and pushing fluids. Connor leans back and Hank helps him gently cover up. “Ready?”

With a nod from Connor, he starts the transfusion proper. Richard looks mildly distressed with the way Connor dips even more pale and curls in on himself, the harsh little breath he lets out. Hank smooths back his hair, leaning down to whisper loving words to him. Cole takes his pulse at his ankle instead of asking for Connor’s arm and then lets him be.

“That’s it?” Richard asks the room, not caring who answers. His brother looks so out of it, like he’s drugged, and in some part of his mind he knows why that doesn’t sit right with him.

“It always hits him hard at first, no matter how we do it.” Hank explains, tucking the blanket near Connor’s neck. Over these months, they’ve tried it a bunch of ways, and it’s always rough at the start.

Connor’s brow knits, trying to seek out the warmth of Hank’s hand. “I… I’m cold.”

“I know, honey.” Hank coos, dipping over the back of the couch to try and draw the blanket over more of him.

Richard remembers those words clear as day, when he found Connor crawling home in the snow, covered in his own blood. He didn’t think he’d have such a bad reaction to this, a flashback of all things, but seeing Connor in a situation he doesn’t know how to help with really gets him.

Hank watches Richard spin red, and the synthskin on his hands pull away with a tiny _shlick._ He pulls Connor to him, careful of the IV, and holds him close. “You’re alright. I promise, I’ll fix it.”

Connor hums groggily, the lines of tension leaving him. “My brother… always caring for me.”

There’s actual heat radiating off Richard. Hank feels it when he maneuvers a pillow over. He’s turned up his external temperature for Connor. Hank squeezes him gently at the forearm, “That’s a neat trick. Be careful with that.”

“I’m always careful.” Richard says, and Hank gives him one hell of a look. The stuff he’s heard about wouldn’t exactly be classified as ‘careful’. He gives Hank a sheepish smile, “Except when I’m not.”

But Connor looks so relaxed, Hank can’t give him any shit. “His temperature will come up at some point, just keep him comfortable for now.”

Richard looks like he thinks Hank’s making a joke.

But halfway through the transfusion Connor is whining low in his throat and trying to wiggle his way out of the cocoon. He’s doing a weak job and Richard stumbles to help, looking at him with astonishment. Hank brings in a few cool cloths and starts to pat his forehead, which seems to bring him great relief. “Oh, thank you…”

Richard’s spinning red again. Blinking like some kind of anxiety light show. He pushes Hank’s hand away to feel his brother’s forehead and cheeks, emotions crashing across his face. “You’re never warm. You… You never get warm.”

“It’s like a sauna.” Connor merrily complains, eyes not even open. It’s usually too difficult a task most times, he’d rather just be floating in it. “Richard, I could very well be laid in front of the fireplace. Remember the viscount’s fireplace? _Lavish_.”

Richard looks close to tears, but he’s reining it back in pretty well. He accepts the second cloth Hank hands over, taking over Connor’s face while Hank does the neck and chest. “You still won’t say his name, will you?”

“Never.” Connor grins tiredly, like an old inside joke. Richard looks unbelievably tender.

“Is it bad manners to talk about your old lover with your fiancé here?” he asks quietly, patting gently at Connor’s temple with the cool cloth.

“I hope not. I tell him the wild stories.” Connor hums, and Hank chuckles. “He likes the one with the stockings.”

Richard smiles fondly. “Ah, I see… You know, our good viscount never truly did get over the time you fed from him.”

Connor chuckles smugly, shaking his head. “Oh, I haven’t fully told Hank that one yet.”

“I won’t spoil _that_.” Richard shakes his shoulders like he’s removing the memory of being told. It’s a little funny. Hank thinks he knows the jist of that certain tale. Richard gently dabs at Connor’s brow, his own a little heavy in thought. “You know, he helped me. After.”

Connor raises his brows with a little ‘hm?’, and he nods even though his brother isn’t looking. “We were going to go to him, that night. When I bought the tickets… when they took me away. Some of the things in the safety deposit box I first put together, they were from him. For you. I was going to send one of our friends to retrieve it when we were safe.”

“Oh, Richard…” Connor whispers, weakly finding the lapel of his shirt.

“He was at the funeral. He wore black only so I’d stick out… He was going to come in emerald-studded gloves.” There’s some sickly sadness held tight while Richard speaks, but it’s laced with a certain fondness, a knowledge that the memory is a very far away memory, indeed.

Connor snorts, “Tell me about your suit. Beau said it made a woman faint.”

“It was extravagant, really. Too much. Blue embroidered silk and linen. Purple _velvet_ along the shoulders. I wore the—”

“Those god-awful gold-laced boots.” Connor blusters.

“I did.” Richard grins, lighting up like a Christmas tree. “Oh, those were beautiful things.”

“Ghastly.” Connor mumbles, smile so big. Richard swats him gently with the cloth.

“Oh, they all _hated_ me.” he muses, “Father’s face was so red, I tell you he was about to pop like a balloon.”

“Serves them all right… Crying over a pile of dirt.”

“Mother’s tears were real.” Richard says quietly, brushing Connor’s forehead, getting the sweaty hair off his skin.

“No…” Connor whispers, “She was there.”

Richard gives Hank an almost guilty glance, like he’s being forced to listen to history and not on the edge of his goddamn seat with it. “She wrote me a letter. I think it was the last lucid moment she ever had. It took years to find me, when I’d started using my real name again.”

Connor’s brow furrows, head tilting toward Richard’s voice.

“Her memory spells were worse than she let on. Even back when we were trying to hide you. I’ll let you read the letter, but she said… that father, his pseudo sister and brother, they had instilled fear in her. They used me to lure you to the basement, and they used her to use me.”

“Richard.” Connor warns, as if Richard would joke about this.

“I swear. Yes, she was scared— of the unknown, of what had been done to you. She didn’t understand. But she was easily confused, and they made her scared of _you_. That you’d harm her, that you wanted to.”

“I would never.” Connor whispers, his eyes fluttering as he tears up.

“No, I know.” Richard leans down to press their foreheads together. “I know… She wrote that she didn’t want to do it. Coerced fear did it. Because how could her baby want that? How could the boy who helped her dress and learned to braid her hair and listened for hours on end to her violin— how could he want to do her any harm?”

Connor croaks brokenly, hand closest to Hank reaching out towards the sound of his heart. “ _Yes_.”

“She knew, in the end. She knew. Father sent her to live in the hospital because she fought with him incessantly about letting you out. Even though she believed you’d died.”

“Fuck.” Hank says under his breath, enclosing Connor’s hand with both of his own, pressing a tender kiss to his knuckles.

“She thought I died?” He hiccups, and Richard catches a tear as it rolls down his cheek.

“She wanted to bury you with dignity, Connor.”

Connor sobs, “She would’ve found me alive.”

“I know.” Richard whispers, hugging him close.

Cole slides quickly back into the room after hearing the sob and upset, still half chewing a bite of leftovers. He’s immediately making room for himself near Connor, “What’s going on? Hey. Hey, Connor. Tell me what’s up.

“Oh, Cole.” Connor shakes his head, finding him blindly. Cole checks his pulse with the hand that reaches out. “I’m alright, I’m sorry to worry you.”

“Try to stay calm, I know it’s rough. Anything I can do?” Cole’s in full caretaker mode, he even bumps Hank to the side and moves Richard’s hands so he can see his patient better. He checks Connor’s forehead, the IV connection, assessing that it’s not a medical emergency. “Maybe not anything. I’m not calling you dad.”

Through the tears, Connor snorts with a funny hiccup of laughter. “Are you sure? I could be your father three times over.”

“Sure you could.” Cole jokes, applying pressure to a stress point on Connor’s hand. “And Natalie can eat a whole steak.”

“We both know she does not have a stomach yet!” Connor counters blearily, letting himself get swept away in Cole’s distraction. In the back of his head, the words are still spinning, the thought that his mother still loved him. She always loved him, but to know she didn’t consent to the act of violence… That she would have come to save him, if she was able. He decides with certainty that he needs to see that letter.

He calms slowly, but it’s improvement nonetheless. Richard smooths his hair back in perfect repetitive motions, fingers cool to the touch. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have upset you.”

Connor barely shakes his head, too worn to move at all. “No… I’m glad you spoke.”

Cole reaches over for his juice and guides the straw to him, encouraging him to take a few sips. “How about I get you one of those caramels, huh?”

Connor’s face goes so tender. Such kindness. Like his father, Cole thinks it’s just what you do. Care, kindness, gentle gestures. Connor’s going to thank Hank’s mothers profusely when he meets them.

Hank follows Cole to the kitchen once he knows Connor’s going to be alright. He hears Richard making him comfortable and Connor asking gently to hear about their old friends, before he turns his attention to the wild fucking situation at hand. “That uh, that was some joke.”

“Was it?” Cole asks a little briskly. Hank winces.

“How’d you know?” he asks, like a scatter-brained idiot. He’s trying to filter through if they said the word fiancé around Cole, while twirling the damned ring on his finger.

“You haven’t worn jewelry in twenty years.” Cole points out, getting out the little tray with Connor’s caramels on them.

Hank nods eagerly, because Cole’s _right_ , and the back of his neck prickles a little with embarrassment. “I was gonna tell you.”

“Eventually, you’d have to.” Cole says, letting out a little chuckle. “Who else is gonna walk you down the aisle?”

“Well, I—” The words hit Hank like a slap to the face, then like the sun on a warm summer day. “You… You’re not angry?”

“Angry?” Cole looks at him from where he’s putting wax paper on a caramel. That’ll be taken off in two seconds, but Connor enjoys the experience. “For what?”

Hank stumbles, truly and fully. “I— I don’t know. It’s been a long time since me and mom, and you like Connor—”

“I do like Connor.” Cole tells him. And it really makes Hank’s heart sing to hear it. “I would’ve liked to be let in on the secret, but…”

“He sprung it on me!” Hank defends.

“He sprung it on you? You were a police Lieutenant. No one just _springs stuff_ on you!” Cole thinks about all the times his father knew about friend’s families giving him candy when he stayed over after school, even when it was said he’d ruin his supper. Or being seventeen and knowing 100% that his father knew that he’d snuck someone into the house after a date.

“I’m old!” Hank whines.

“Tell that to your blood results!”

“I’m soft!” Hank adds.

Cole grins now, knowing his teddy bear of a father. “Well, you got me there.”

Hank chuckles softly, feeling that tension leave him. He does feel the need to make sure, he wants to know Cole’s okay with this. “You’re really not upset?”

“I like Connor.” Cole says, like that entirely sums it up. And it really does, but he adds anyway, “You love him.”

“I do.” Hank whispers, with feeling.

“And the two of you look so damn good with this house, I’m not gonna ruin the aesthetic.”

He smiles softly, “Yeah, yeah.”

“You belong here.” Cole tells him, easy as anything.

Hank feels it in his bones. He really does. In this house, with Connor.


	27. mrs. and mrs. anderson’s lunch with a vampire

Connor tries his best to be presentable in the 21st century way, not to be so outdated and extravagant. With a gentle word from Hank and one amused offer from Richard, he fails spectacularly. He had wanted to dress in something nice from the current year, to make sure he fit in for this monumentally special occasion, but Hank assures him that he doesn’t need to make himself fit in. Hank just wants _him_. Hank wants the man he’s going to marry, not a pale comparison in a pair of jeans. If he wants to dress comfortably in what he knows, then he absolutely can. And it helps that Richard has a plethora of old clothes in storage.

So when Connor goes to meet Celeste and Margaret Anderson, he brings flowers from the garden, bread from the oven, and is decked out to the nines in well-preserved Victorian clothes. A black on black thread embroidered waistcoat, obsidian buttons, his favorite lavender billow-sleeved shirt with the fish pin, and a blue tartan silk puff tie to finish it off. He feels _good_. He and Hank look quite different side by side, but he makes a mental note to himself to purchase Hank a waistcoat too, because he just may be able to make Hank’s wild silk shirts work very well for making them a closer match.

Either way, when they walk in, they’re greeted to exclamations of joy and love. Hank gets pulled every which way, distributing kisses to each mother in equals. Then, they land eyes on Connor. And… Connor hasn’t been fawned over like this by women in a long time. The ‘ooh’s and ‘aww’s and “aren’t you handsome!” in the only way women who are near-perfect strangers can. It’s wonderful and sweet, and he hopes very soon that the fondness he gets from Beaumont and Cassandra will infuse to Hank’s mothers, because he so wishes to be their family.

They’re so surprised at the bushel of tulips and daisies, and even more so when Connor offers to cut them slices of bread. He makes a point to say it’s still warm, and Hank explains Connor all made these things himself. Margaret loops them arm in arm as she shows him to the kitchen, delighted that the bread will go perfectly with the soup she’s made.

Celeste stops Hank by his coattails when he eagerly tries to follow, “Where are you off to, little hen? You know she likes to pick their brains without you hovering.”

“I almost forgot.” Hank admits, smiling softly. “She won’t be too hard on him, right?”

“Because he’s so, so special?” she teases, hugging his arm. She’s not tall enough to lay her head on his shoulder, so she leans on his bicep while leading him towards the living room. “You’ve told us a good deal about him, but my goodness, you didn’t tell us just how adorable those big, brown eyes are.”

“He’s somethin’, isn’t he?” He may be going a little pink and thinking about how Connor would enjoy it. He’s sure his good Mr. Stern can hear exactly what they’re saying about him. “Like a dream.”

“Aren’t you just a sappy old romantic? Just like your mother.” she coos, going to sit in her favorite rocking chair. She’s knitting something again, it’s not much more than a foot long rectangle right now but he’s wondering if she’s trying to get a jumpstart on Christmas.

“You or her?” he grins, and she just gives him a smug smile.

After a bit, Connor comes into the room ferrying a large tray of food, Margaret following close behind. They’ve sliced the bread and gathered together bowls of soup, and Connor’s smile is overwhelmingly bright. Hank leans to sweep that one lock of hair off his fiancé’s forehead, “She’s got you working already, huh?”

“I’m very happy to help.” Connor says quietly, giving everyone a bowl that Margaret crafted herself. Hank’s happy to know she’s showing off.

“I’m being friendly and sweet, like always.” Margaret promises with a sly smile.

“Of course, Ma. You always are.” He thinks she’s absolutely sugarcoating, but Connor doesn’t seem traumatized at all, and he’s getting to eat homemade soup, so. He’s happy. Even more when Connor sits close enough to be touching thighs, and indulges in the soup even if he has a full belly from last night.

There’s a lot of talk, a few mildly invasive questions. Connor tells them as much as he can, that his parents are dead but his brother isn’t, that he has nieces and nephews— he just doesn’t say how grand and great-great they are. Says while he has good schooling, he much prefers certain subjects. It’s kind of an excuse to talk about his love for space, and all the skills he knows that used to be mandatory to find a spouse or be considered accomplished. Hank complains just a little bit over them asking about Connor’s perceived youth.

“Our Hank is a tad bit older than you, that’s only why we ask.” Celeste tries a bit more delicately than her wife. He knows at the heart of it, they’re making sure Connor’s not in it for something other than love.

“I wouldn’t say that.” Connor smiles, then promptly fills his mouth with bread.

Hank tries not to laugh. “Mom, you wanna bring out the embarrassing photo albums or something? That would be fun, huh?”

Celeste lights up and eagerly puts her bowl aside, “Oh! Oh, you’re right. You were such a cute baby, he’ll love that.”

Margaret squints her eyes at him, a real Look™, that says he can distract his mother but not both of them. And he gives her one of those puppy dog looks that he’s gotten really good at, that says it’s all okay.

Connor gets his fill of soup and baby pictures being shoved in his face, listens enthusiastically to all the stories - they don’t spare the embarrassing stories, fucking great - and talk a little bit about their long, long marriage. They also ask if he’s met Cole, to which Connor responds so brightly that it’s like they don’t expect it. He gushes about Cole and his friends, even though he’s only met one and just heard of the others, and praises Hank’s mothers on raising such a good man, who in turn has raised another good man.

When they leave, both Margaret and Celeste seem very taken with Connor. They even tell him to come back and visit, which means more to Connor than they know. Hank lets him lean on him while they walk to the car, “How are you doin’, bud?”

“I’m very full of soup.” he admits, and Hank laughs. “They’re lovely, Hank. You’re their pride and joy, I can tell.”

“Just don’t tell my brother that.” Hank jokes, hand smoothing up and down along Connor’s spine. “I think they liked you, too. Ma really warmed up to you.”

“Oh, yes. All those veiled personal questions and darling threats. I’m glad she found me worthy.” he nods along happily.

Hank almost trips. “She actually threatened you?”

“All in good fun.” Connor waves him off, “I was once threatened that I’d be shot if I wasn’t honorable. Your mother brandishing a ladle and telling me firmly that you’re her littlest baby, and she’d move heaven and earth for you sits very comfortably with me.”

Hank blinks the surprise away. He never was let in on what his mother talked to his partners about when she did that. “Christ. She didn’t need to go that far.”

“It’s not threatening if I’d be right next to her to pull, dearest.”

Hank waits until the car, at least, to kiss him. He can’t slide Connor across the seat to squeeze him close because of a whine about a full belly, but Connor adorns him with lazy kisses all across his face instead. Hank promises to carry him inside after all the excitement.


	28. zucchero

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is an entirely new chapter that wasn't in the original thread 👏 i hope you enjoy!

Richard says it’s Connor’s birthday. Connor will not confirm it. But Hank’s letting him have the run of the place, anyway. They’ve gone into the city, and Hank has bit his tongue at every boutique Connor has wanted to go into. It’s not that he doesn’t love it, because— One, it gets Connor out of the afternoon sun every time they duck into a place. And two, his fiancé looks so very happy to be on their outing. So happy, in fact, it’s worth Hank having to endure Connor buying _him_ things. The most Connor has bought himself are things that match whatever he’s gotten Hank.

He’s tried on clothes, accessories— had fabrics draped over his shirtless body that could be hand-tailored into something just the way Connor would like. Connor’s even told him he could have his mid-twenties dream of getting his ears pierced. He had to talk Connor out of getting him fifteen-hundred dollar earrings for holes he doesn’t even fucking _have_ yet. He’s lovingly complained to Cole about it, and all he got back was a lack of sympathy and told he didn’t know sugar babies could be gray. Hank had stomped his foot, for real, in a huff. And then Connor had given him one of those smiles, and hummed low in his throat as he dragged Hank into a dressing room for a very filthy kiss.

Now, he lets Connor drape another necklace onto him in yet another shop, and press open a button on his shirt for good measure - to see it better, he’s said - and smooths the long double chain against his skin. “What do you think? It’s beautiful with your tattoo.”

Hank thinks it’s halfway to his bellybutton, this damn thing is so long. But it’s a lot more simple than the others Connor has wanted to buy for him, and he can’t keep saying no for too long. He doesn’t really get why Connor wants to give _him_ something on his own birthday, when he should be showering himself in gifts (and letting Hank do the same). “It’s… It’s actually real nice, honey. You think I can pull it off?”

“I think I’d like to see it on you.” Connor says, but like he hasn’t given the whole sentence. It means ‘ _and only this on you_ ’, he knows, and he imagines it for a split second, Connor’s lips and tongue against the gold against him.

“A yes, then.” he manages, picking the sparkling stone up from the bottom of the necklace. There are two of them, one at a semi-regular resting place against his chest and the other at the very end of a continuing chain, lengthy inches under the first.

“And you like it? It’s—” Connor asks, toying with the higher jewel. He looks up at Hank and furrows his brow, “Wait, yes?”

“Yeah. I… _enjoy_ it.” And it means ‘ _I’ll enjoy you_ ’, and Hank’s never been one to make too much actual innuendo out in the world, but if Connor really wants this…

Connor brightens and just like that he’s running the backs of his fingers along Hank’s cheek and turning to the jeweler to say they’ll take it. While they get the bill of sale ready, he nudges Hank’s shoulder as they look down at the rows of rings, “Is there anything more you’d like to look at while we’re here?”

Hank gives him a knowing little grin, shaking his head. He knows how he wants to go about finding Connor a ring, and knows what he’ll do with it when he does. “Nope. I’ve already been thinking a good long while about certain jewelry.”

He says it as his thumb plays with the ring on his finger, and Connor’s skin just barely pulls up a ruddy flush. Hank’s eyes have been trained to catch it after this long. And he can’t help but tease him just a little, “You like that, Mr. Stern?”

“Hank.” Connor admonishes, looking away from him bashfully. It’s not a ‘Mr. Anderson’, but a ‘ _Hank_ ’. And all at once Hank wonders if they could go home, so he could press more teasing and loving and devoted words into Connor’s skin.

“Is there more on the agenda, _sir_?” he asks, because he just can’t stop himself.

Connor straightens the line of his coat, “Yes, and you will not get out of it.”

“By your tone, I wouldn’t even dream of trying.” he promises breezily, resting his hands behind his back while the jeweler returns to finish the transaction with Connor. On their way out, Connor finds his hand and laces their fingers together, bringing Hank’s up for a cool kiss.

“You may try, but it is a novelty still to see you squirm.”

Hank doesn’t know what to say to that.

But he drives where Connor tells him, out of town where the trees grow thicker and the roads have deer crossing signs. He can’t help the surprised hum when he turns down the ranch driveway and sees the horses moseying around. “Oh, Connor…”

“Aren’t they magnificent, Hank?” He’s already beaming, reaching out the open window as they pass by a curious horse.

“They sure are, bud.” Hank agrees as he finds a place to park. “I’m happy you’re doing something for you.”

“I’ve missed being on horseback.” He breathes the words like he’s sharing a secret. He’s up and out of the car as soon as Hank puts it in park, already heading towards the gate to the beautiful stallion trotting back and forth. Hank jogs to catch up, watching Connor take off his glove in the late sun to pet the horse.

“So, are you gonna ride one? That’s why we’re here, right?”

Connor turns back to smile at him, “That’s why _we_ are here, yes.”

Hank’s eyes flit to the horse and then to Connor, taking a step back, “Wait, wait…”

“Beloved.” Connor croons, gentle and just the way Hank likes best. The way he falls for, every time. He reaches back for Hank’s hand, coaxing him into his orbit before he brings their hands to the horse’s muzzle, “I know you have a gentle touch. They need affection, too.”

Hank isn’t scared, but he’s certainly wary of what Connor’s insinuating. He was thinking he’d watch Connor with a horse, see him ride, take a few photos. “I’m not against giving them affection, I’m right here.”

“They’ll love you.”

Hank just gives him a sigh.

Connor goes into the barn and finds the trainer, and Hank hears them talking with excitement about getting to take the horses out for their appointment, and how Connor is an accomplished rider. Hank gently pats the horse’s muzzle and whispers, “Be kind to me. Tell your friends, too?”

They end up inside the barn, with Hank anxiously watching while Connor mounts and dismounts a horse with seasoned grace. He’s thoroughly impressed, but gives an uneasy smile anyway. “Honey, you really make it look easy.”

“It can be, Hank. You trust the animal, and they trust you.” Connor promises, leading him closer. He strokes the horse’s flank and Hank follows suit. “Just step up onto the stool, it’s there to help you. One foot in the stirrup, and pull yourself up.”

Connor places his hands and holds him by the hip so he doesn’t wobble with nervousness. Hank gets his one foot up, like he’s been told, and the horse looks unperturbed, but. He stalls. He remembers thinking he’d never even touch a saddle for the rest of his life, and now he’s about to get on a horse. “Connor, I don’t know about this.”

“They’re much stronger than you, beloved.”

“So are you and your brother, you’re just adding to the list.”

“Yes, but you’re not about to hop onto Richard’s back now, are you?”

“He’s capable of piggy back rides and you know it.”

“Get on the horse, Hank.”

Hank manages to get his ass on the horse. And it’s nothing like he thought. Connor comes around to help settle his foot into the other stirrup and pet his thigh like he’s the spooked one that needs to be soothed. He startles though, embarrassingly, when the horse so much as moves. “Oh, shit. Oh, god.”

“Hank.” Connor coos, taking the reins from the trainer. “Relax your hips, move with the horse. I’ll walk the two of you around.”

“Yeah, honey, you take the lead here.” Hank nods, trying his best to follow the instruction. “I’m really up here.”

“You are.” Connor sounds so pleased. “I’m very proud of you.”

“Am I doing it right?” He asks, trying to move with the horses’ leisurely steps.

“Just like that. I knew you’d get that part right.” Connor has the audacity to say, and to turn back and wink.

“I feel like a regular cowboy.” Hank says even as the flush blooms on the back of his neck.

“If only I had one of those hats to give you. I remember the fashion.”

“Wait, wait.” Hank leans over a little, curious now. “You saw cowboys? Like, real ones? Did you ever dress as one?”

“Once.” Connor indulges him, gently bringing them back towards the trainer’s area. “It was during a retreat. I found myself in a harsh rainstorm, soaked to the bone. A friend of the gamehunter, I’d met him once or twice, he offered me clothes and a place to wait out the storm.”

Hank squints lightly at the back of Connor’s head, “Was he handsome?”

Connor spares a mischievous glance his way, “Exceedingly.”

Hank grins to himself.

Connor passes the reins back to the trainer and sets the stool close again, “Would you like to get down, my love?”

He hesitates, giving a gentle pat to the horse. He doesn’t want to think about getting down yet when he’s finally brought himself up here. “Ah… Is it okay if I don’t? It’s kinda nice.”

Connor looks at him with unbridled happiness, voice hushed with all the delight. “That’s entirely okay. Yes, of course.”

The trainer has brought another horse out to them, and Connor swings himself up easy as ever. Then he not only takes his own reins, he takes Hank’s as well. It’s slow, and he brings them outside now, into the light of the setting sun. He looks so beautiful, basking in the late light that isn’t as prickly against his skin and handling not one but two horses and a nervous fiancé to boot. Hank can’t stop looking at him. “You’re so handsome, sweetheart.”

“Mr. Anderson.” Connor preens, all in good fun. “Choose which path we take.”

“The left one.” he manages after a bit of debate, and Connor looks at him with that steady patience, leading them to carry on easily.

The sun is low in the sky while they move along the path, admittedly at about a snail’s pace. Hank can see Connor’s happy to be out here, happy to have a little taste of an old pastime. He knows he throws a wrench in it a little, with his ineptitude, but Connor would never say that. He’d spout how overjoyed he is that Hank is here with him, that they’re doing this together. He’d probably say something very similar if Hank hadn’t stayed on the horse, too. So maybe it’s not the best course of action Hank could take, but he’s betting he won’t get himself into too much trouble, when he reaches over and gently gathers the reins of his horse from Connor’s hands.

“Hank?”

“There’s somethin’ I’ve been wanting to see,” he explains, sitting as relaxed as he can while making sure he’s got a good grip. “You mentioned once, about you galloping across the Scottish countryside. I want you to show me that.”

“What about you?”

Hank gestures, gently, as the horse simply keeps moving. “It’s working out, I think.”

Connor gives him one of those looks that asks if he’s sure, because sometimes it takes that look for Hank to say so, because sometimes Hank wants to please more than watch after himself. But he just gives Connor a look too, the one that says _of course I’m sure, tender old man_.

So Connor smiles, all bright and wonderful and it sets Hank’s heart kick-drumming. Then he trots away from Hank before adjusting into a heartier canter. Hank laughs at the wondrous look of it all, thinking about how this man is his, he’s going to marry him— the fact that he’s got so many skills, and so much love in his heart, all the things people in 1899 or whenever the fuck were absolutely jumping over and yet Connor was never scooped up. What a fucking scandal, in Hank’s opinion. This man is a treasure and Hank can’t believe his goddamn dumb luck.

“You’re a catch, sweetheart!” he calls, and Connor has the horse prance around to show off.

“Oh, and yourself as well! I’d send you a flirtation card.” Connor grins, petting the horse’s neck.

Hank smiles and makes a mental note to look up what the fuck a flirtation card is, just in case there’s some hidden meaning there. He waves to all the open space ahead of them in the field, “Go on and show me all that talent!”

Connor gives him another blinding smile before he and the horse dart off, the sunset behind him like the most romantic cowboy landscape Hank’s ever seen. He carefully, very carefully, takes out his phone for photos and the horse must have heard to go easy on him, because they’re barely jostling Hank at all. Cole would be proud of him for not freaking out about it, he’s totally gonna be boasting about it later.

It’s a pretty picturesque field that they’ve ended up in. Soft, swaying grass. The slightest rolling hills. Trees at the edges and a lake far off ahead. Things are going a little golden and Connor is jumping with the horse and— it’s all so surreal. It’s all so _good_. The silhouette of Connor in his wide brimmed hat on the back of a horse is such a sight. Hank tries his best to steer his horse, following in the wake of Connor’s happiness.

In time, Connor trots back over for the express purpose of leaning over and catching Hank in a passionate kiss. Thankfully enough, he grabs the reins to keep Hank steady because he knows Hank loves to hold him while they’re locking lips. “How are you doing?”

“I’m just fine, sweetheart.” he murmurs, happy Connor’s the one leaning over and not him. He takes a hold of Connor’s jaw to coax him back into another kiss just to feel the way Connor surges up to meet him. He pushes his hat off, and Connor tugs at his cowl. “Seems like you’re doin’ real good.”

“It’s my birthday, I’m allowed.” Connor hums indulgently.

“You sure are.” Hank looks out over the landscape again, and thinks to himself how much he can’t let the moment pass by. “Could I ask to spend a little time with the landscape and the man of the golden hour?”

He watches Connor’s shoulders do a little shake, “Oh… Now, that’s dripping in romance. How could I say no?”

They stop at a nice spot Hank picks out by a tree, and it’s a moment of Hank trying so hard to look not like a mess when he slides down off the horse. Connor’s hands at his waist help, like every period fantasy romance Hank has never seen. Of course. And Connor looks at him like he knows it too, which makes him feel things. Connor takes the horses over to a small stream not too far away, Hank can barely hear the bubble of water but he’s sure Connor can easily as ever.

He comes back to Hank’s awaiting hands, feeling the eager tension beneath his skin just from the first touch alone. But Hank doesn’t kiss him, he settles them flush from chest to thigh and starts to move like he’s hearing a tune from one of their old records. Connor sways with him like muscle memory, his head coming to rest on Hank’s shoulder.

When Hank starts to hum, he feels himself shiver. He can’t help but press his ear fully to his fiancé’s body, to hear the rumble inside and out. Hank slowly goes through “Happy Birthday”, letting himself linger, to feel Connor’s pleased sighs against him. It’s so good to hold him, experience the time with him and the barely there breeze that blesses them entirely on whim. It reminds him of the first time they danced, in warm colored light with Connor slumping against him. “Did you guys have the song, back then?”

Connor hums against his collar. “What song?” 

“The birthday song.”

“Oh.” He can’t help but smile and his words carry the sound of it. “Yes, we did.”

The difference between now and the first time they danced, Hank thinks, is that when he cups the side of Connor’s face and brings their foreheads together, it’s this time when he can kiss him. It’s saccharine, Connor’s hand coming up to hold his face too, and the smile he has kinda gets in the way but neither of them mind in the slightest.

“We should stay a while.” Connor mumbles against his mouth, when Hank’s hand has spread across his back, his own grasping the back of Hank’s neck.

“Anything you want.” It’s half muffled by Connor continuously pecking his lips.

He coaxes Hank to sit down in the grass underneath a tree, knowing his legs will be tired. He wants the additional time before they have to head back, where they can rest and experience the late sun while it’s gentle against his skin. He runs his fingers through Hank’s beard and looks at him as the sky changes colors, “You’re so handsome in this light, Hank.”

Hank squeezes Connor’s knee but lets his fingers slip towards his thigh. He gives a pleasant hum while he tips into Connor’s touch, “You really think so?”

“Mm, like an art piece.”

“Well, you’re the one with the good eyes.” Hank feels how sappy his voice is, how soft while he gazes at the easy smile pulling Connor’s lips.

“While yours look like aquamarines.”

“Always comparing me to gemstones.”

“The cloyingly sweet thing to say would be that you’re precious.”

“Jesus. Connor…” He stifles his laugh and hides the heat on his cheeks against the side of Connor’s neck.

Connor’s arms are thrown over his shoulders and his own laughter rings loud in the field when Hank’s fingers tuck just the right way against his sides. He holds on tight, loving the flurry of kisses Hank leaves across his neck and jaw, how he’s dipping just below the collar. “You’re not changing my mind! This is even reinforcing my stance.”

He tries to raise up on his knees to get them closer, but Hank presses him back against the grass and blankets himself over before Connor can pull himself back up. “Where are you runnin’ to, sugar?”

“Oh, nowhere now.” Connor hums, pushing his chest up against Hank’s just to feel the weight against him. “You look like a man possessed, Hank.”

“Maybe a bit.” he murmurs into Connor’s mouth as he pins him with a kiss. That familiar chill crawls up the expanse of his back, Connor’s fingers spreading over his shoulder blades. There’s a little bite when he kisses, like he’s coaxing Connor into the same, holding him at the hair so he doesn’t get too far away.

Connor mumbles his name in between turns of their heads, like he’s surprised and pleased and excited. And Hank growls low, playful, holding his lover between his hands like he’s precious and coveted. When he lets Connor go there’s a small grunt of protest until he realizes Hank’s shifting himself _down_ , not leaving him altogether.

“Oh,” he sighs as Hank’s hands pull at his many buttons and fastenings, “Right here?”

"Mm." Hank presses a wet kiss at the sensitive dip of Connor's lower belly, hands curled in bunched up fabric, "Fuck, right here."

When he takes him into his mouth, there’s a quiver in Connor’s hips that shoots fire through Hank’s belly. The responsiveness his touch brings always blows him away. He looks up to see Connor’s head tilting back, neck straining as he groans and reaches to ground himself at Hank’s shoulder. And Hank can’t be anything but enthusiastic, basking in the smell of the rich fragrance Connor’s taken to wearing and the fresh grass beneath them, in the sensation of him on his tongue as he works his mouth with all the suction Connor likes.

Connor’s fingers curl desperately in the fabric of Hank’s shirt, the noises pulling from his throat at the roughness of Hank’s big hands spanned across his inner thighs. The squeeze that presses heat into his chilled skin tells him to squirm to his heart’s delight, like it always does. It makes his eyes roll back, the permission to work his hips up against Hank’s grasp. Both of them love the push and pull, the slight desperation in the face of so much want for each other. Connor moans into the open air, tugging on Hank’s shirt enough for the threads to creak and it makes a shiver tingle down Hank’s back, makes his hips arch against nothing.

His hand encircles Connor’s, working it from the fabric before he rips a damn hole. He laces their fingers, back to palm, and drags their hands up. Pressing the heel of his hand against Connor’s mouth, against his teeth, Connor presses a reverent and sloppy kiss to his skin. But it's replaced by a ragged gasp with Hank’s fingers pressing into his mouth, pushing at his blunt canines. _Oh_.

His hips jerk against Hank’s mouth, “Fuck. Hank… Hank, you can’t—”

Hank groans and presses his nose against Connor’s pubic bone. Connor sees stars. The request is clear, and the answer is just as. The pleasure rings in his veins and he cradles Hank's hand to his mouth as he bites down.

Hank's whole being dips into the sensation, his consciousness sings at every crackle of feeling and burst of pleasure Connor guides his way. He's thrumming with it, floating with the way Connor is shifting up against his mouth, the knowledge that he's making the man he's in love with feel _good_ — Hank's a simple, tender man. It gets to him like nothing else. Through the haze he's very present, aware of the way Connor almost glows in the colors from the gold-purple sky, how his eyes have closed and each swallow he takes. He hums, a low gravelly thing, running his fingers across Connor's thigh and up and up until he's spanning them across his ribs like he can make Connor warm with his very touch. And he doesn't know it, but he absolutely can. Connor feels like he's being scorched and it's beautiful, it's exquisite and bright and his chest is heaving with the upheaval of the constant chill. God, Hank makes him feel alive.

When he starts tensing up, gasping after each rich swallow, Hank doesn't let him get away. He pulls off only to pant how much he wants him, in a voice that could make the devil blush and bend, and takes Connor right over the edge like it's an honor to do it. The reverence with which he rests his head on Connor's hip and smears a kiss into his skin is something Connor will never forget, even with the frenzy in his head. He places a companion kiss to Hank's hand, over the indents of his teeth in the heel, and Hank's fingers twitch against the curve of his jaw.

He rubs Hank's wrist and forearm to work the circulation back in more gently, when his lover slumps down to take a minute, and the both of them pant into the night air.

"You're trembling." Hank manages, voice wrecked. It makes Connor shake harder.

He presses his knee a little more into Hank's side, "I'm trembling in anticipation to kiss you."

Hank makes a soft, tender noise that Connor wishes he'd made while they were connected, so he could feel how he's just made Hank light up. The sparks and connections. He doesn't realize just how much he's shaking until Hank's weight is off him, while he's leaning up to pull Connor into that all-encompassing kiss. And Hank pets him down, slow swipes of his forever warm hands and a gentle pull against the heat of his welcoming body, where Connor's home.

"There you are." Hank whispers, against the wet curve of Connor's lower lip. "Don't get lost."

"You're incredible." he whispers back, holding him between his hands.

"I feel like a livewire." Hank chuckles, almost bashful, dipping to kiss the corner of his mouth. He's careful with his hand as he tries to right Connor's clothes, "I forgot there was an upswing to the euphoria, because I'm always in a position to go to sleep after… I'm so fuckin' close."

"Let me have you." He says it like a question and rightful demand at once. If Hank wants, he will have him with every ounce of his being. Like he always does.

Hank smiles against his cheek, a big one, giddiness. "Oh, I will. Just let me enjoy what you've already had of me."

Connor's fingers ache. This man… god, this one human man.

He desperately wishes now that he learned how to drive, so he could take them home after ruining his soon-to-be husband like he deserves this very moment.

As it is, Hank is happy. So when they can stand, Connor brings the horses back to them and puts Hank on, and trots them back. Hank waits at the barn entrance, leaning a little heavy on the door because his legs are slightly jelly from riding, and listens to Connor praise the animals and request they’re given extra sugar cubes for their good behavior. He enjoys when Connor links their arms and lets him lean while they walk to the car.

He starts up the car but doesn’t shift into reverse or even buckle. Connor makes sure his hat isn’t crumpled before looking over at Hank, all ready to go and seeing the look his fiancé is giving him. “What is it?”

Hank gives a little shrug, “It’s only that, y’know, it’s your birthday. And since it’s evidently such a _closely guarded secret_ —” Connor snorts and it makes him smile, “I didn’t have notice to really get you anything.”

“You don’t need to.” Connor promises him, like he’s being silly. “You’ve given me so much today. We did quite a lot.”

“But I didn’t pick you out a gift.” he tries to explain, but Connor reaches for one of his fluttering hands to press a kiss to the still numb heel.

“Beloved, I think you’ve given enough. Acts of service have me melt as easy as butter, as you’re well aware, and you’ve been doing it all day.”

He smiles in a happily long-suffering way— Connor’s such a peach. “Honey, you’re too sweet. I— What I’m trying to get to, is… I didn’t have time to get you a birthday gift, but maybe a _regular_ gift will be just as good.”

He leans over to the glovebox, tapping Connor’s knee out of his way so he can get out a box wrapped in a plastic bag. Connor gives him a gentle grin when he takes it, “You and your gifts, Hank.”

“It’s not much. I pretty much forgot it was in here after I bought it, so don’t get your hopes up.”

“You know, you have raised the bar on how much hope I carry.” Connor murmurs fondly while he unties the bag. He has to read the label before he realizes what it is, but then there’s a small and excited gasp and the wondrous shaking of the box, “Hank!”

“I didn’t think you’d get that much of a kick out of it, it’s only a wifi extender.” Hank says in pleased bewilderment, watching all the delight.

Connor shakes his head, “It’s an exquisite gift! You talked it down so much, but it is marvelous.”

He shrugs. “I thought you’d like to get a good signal on the other side of the house.”

“That’s what it does?” Connor’s eyes light up, and he tries to slide across the seat to hug Hank when he’s abruptly stopped by his seat belt. It cranks back and Hank chuckles at the wounded look Connor’s giving, helping him unbuckle and get out of it. “Ah! My hero.”

He lets Connor pull him in for a quick kiss. “I’m glad you’re happy.”

“Thank you. This is a good anniversary, Hank.” he says, leaning back against the seat in a way Hank craves to see. “I feel contentment… Gentle happiness. The warmth it gives me, it blankets me.”

“Ah, you’re all warmth.” Hank tucks a few flyaways back into place, runs his fingers over the buzz growing out along the side of Connor’s head. Finds a stray blade of grass in his collar. “You ready to go home? Get yourself under some real blankets?”

“Oh, you know just what to say.”

He takes Connor home, where he assures that it’s entirely okay if Connor wants a little time to himself, after a full day of being On. Connor kisses him slowly, gently, and then gets himself into his most comfortable night clothes before on go the noise-cancelling headphones. He looks so peaceful with his eyes closed, curled up comfortably. He only smiles in Hank’s direction when he’s hovering around, saying “I can smell your heart, stop looking so unbearably fond.”

Hank slides him a piece of cake Richard left in the fridge and leaves him be.

At the end of the night, when Hank's slid into his shorts and then into bed, he feels a presence in the room with him despite not hearing Connor's footsteps up the stairs. He smiles to himself. Sneaky. Connor crawls in from the other side, under the blankets, and Hank opens his knees when he feels the brush of a hand against him. That right amount of cold settles, and lets himself be worked out of his shorts. Ah, he barely knew them. He pulls back the blanket just enough and in the almost darkness of the room he sees Connor's black eyes meet his, a playful and heart-stabbingly hot look thrown his way.

"Oh, that's so not fair." he sighs, sinking back into the pillows, "You know that's hot, you know I have a _thing_ for that."

Connor just smiles, like Hank's given him an offhand compliment, casting his eyes back down to where his hand is rubbing slow and deliberate circles into Hank's inner thigh.

"This may ache a bit." he says, voice nonchalant velvet.

Hank's about to ask _which part_ , the teeth or the way he's about to go from zero to sixty, when Connor silently slips back under the blankets like hot Dracula. And Hank plays the game where he wonders what's coming next, where's the slick slide of Connor's mouth going to fall, and thinks thank god he's not too old for this shit.


	29. the only respectable holiday to say ‘the end’

The lights in the old house flicker eerily, making the mutters of guests stir up. But they can’t complain, they’ve all been invited to a spectacular affair. The secretive head of the house has allowed the use of his mansion for the joyous party, and they’ve decorated in the usual way. The kitchen is filled with… questionable indulgences. The favored sitting room, converted into a private theatre. Bobbing for apples, caramels abound, treats and drinks scattered for guests at their leisure. Where the light may be lacking, the decor is anything but— lush ruby curtains, Victorian couches and a three seater tête-à-tête sofa, fine china and adorned dining wares. The areas may be littered with cobwebs, shadows dwelling in dark corners, spots of cold when one strays from the pack— but grand all the same. If the power does fail, candlelight can sustain them.

The house feels almost long forgotten but forever alive. Mischievous skitters and low, dangerous growls emanate from somewhere below the floorboards and inside the walls, whispers of words not entirely able to be deciphered right at the back of the neck. If the power does fail… let whatever is waiting sweep the room.

The gong of the hourly grandfather clock echoes throughout the home, and footsteps crowd the foot of the stairs.

“Shh. Shh!” Cole quiets the room while everyone huddles in the foyer. He pushes a long thread of cobweb away from his face, hanging all the way up on the glittering chandelier. “Here he comes!”

Hank holds up a grand candlestick, waiting with hand on the railing and anticipation over his face. All eyes gaze up as a dark figure appears with a flicker of the lamps. The silhouette descends the stairs with otherworldly silent steps, slinking like inky black darkness. A voice, raspy and low that chills down the spines of his guests. “Welcome to my home. I do hope you enjoy your stay.”

Connor steps out of the deeply cast shadows, eyes black as night and glinting in the glow of the candles when he sharply tilts his head. He takes each step like he knows he has every eye in the room, and when the lights flicker again it causes him to smile. The room is washed in a sudden flare of red, and with shining sharp teeth, Connor hums, “Because I’m afraid leaving is out of the question.”

It sounds as though every lock in the entire house clicks closed in deafening unison. A few people gasp, startled. Then the laughter comes, and the lights return to their warm glow, and Hank grins as he holds out his hand for his soon-to-be husband, “The best attraction of the night.”

It’s fucking awesome. The place looks _fucking awesome_.

“Oh, please.” Connor laughs in delight, leaning to kiss Hank’s cheek. “Everyone enjoy the party! Thank you all for indulging my theatrics! I didn’t know I’d be given such an entrance.”

The guests disperse back towards the party rooms before dinner. Everyone looks wonderful. Hank’s gotten his waistcoat, and it’s paired with a shirt that makes him looked ripped from the cover of a 90s romance novel. The tattoo on full display really makes it— Oh, and the _kilt_. Connor put him in a fucking kilt. And it’s actually pretty comfortable, Hank thinks, just like the nightgown is. He’s thinking of keeping it, for everyday.

Cole is decked out in elaborate makeup, artificial wrinkles and graying hair, dressed up like a snazzy old man— he looks very much like his father, probably on purpose. Both Beaumonts are dressed as witches, with matching hats, because they do this often. Connor can’t wait until Christmas, where they have infamous matching sweaters every single year.

And it gladdens his heart that Elijah and Chloe have shown up too— with Elijah as a cowboy, hat and boots and chaps, and very bashfully happy when someone compliments him. Chloe is dressed in all black, directly inspired from Morticia Addams, down to the source of light that’s seemingly always across her eyes. Markus is even here, in a very detailed zombie costume. Cole’s friends, too, fluttering around in various costumes and making sure everyone has a drink. It’s nice to see wisps of pink hair and the odd glittering scale.

Richard smooths the shoulders of his brother’s immaculate suit, shrugging softly. “You deserved the entrance. I thought amplifying the display would be in everyone’s favor.”

“The red was a nice touch.” Connor says with a grin, knowing very well that Richard is connected to the smart bulbs all around the house. His LED is out, so he can’t see the processes the same, but he’s the spitting image of historical accuracy now. He’s wearing exactly the attire as the portrait on the wall, and it’s caused quite a few chuckles as people arrived.

“All for you.” He promises, with a special little flourish like the world is his oyster.

“I can barely believe this is all for me.” Connor’s honestly astonished at all the work done, eyes flitting around while he fiddles with the hem of his cape. Hank, Cole and himself - and Sumo, of course. He was instrumental to the craft - had carved the pumpkins out front, and he had helped Hank put up the sheet for the projector, but the rest was all Cole and his friends. All the lights and other decor, the invitations… they’ve given Connor a party after all these years.

Hank passes Connor his favorite candlestick, because it completes the damn outfit, and rests his hand on Connor’s lower back to lead him towards the dining room. “They don’t do things in half measures. Come and see this, flower bud.”

They round the corner to see the long dining table fully dressed. It hasn’t looked like this in over a hundred years. All the beautiful plates, Connor-safe dinnerware, and a huge spread of food with a cast iron cauldron displayed along the middle. It’s delightfully festive. Natalie, Cole’s friend, has tinted herself all over green, little antennae sprouting from her temples. Her eyes are artfully disguised among others along the top half of her face, and when she smiles the inside of her mouth is entirely tinted blue.

“Mr. Connor!” She sets the last plate down at the head of the table - with its grand velveteen chair - and gives him a gentle smile. “We’ve got everything just about set.”

Hank watches Connor’s face shift with a wild array of tender emotions. “You did all of this… for me?”

“Of course. We wanted to repay you for being so kind, and it was decided that a dinner party would be exciting. Do you like it?”

Connor rests one hand on his chest like he has pearls to clutch. “My dinner party.”

Richard rests his chin on his brother’s shoulder, “You’ve wanted to host one since you were young.”

“This is a great kindness. I… Let me thank you, and Cole, he—”

Natalie’s nose scrunches up and her antennae curl when she smiles, “No, no. All you do now is have fun.”

Sumo comes lumbering around the table, he’s been helping, with his big lion mane swishing. He’s been so happy to entertain all these guests, he thinks it’s all for him. No one is going to tell him differently. When Connor comes around to give Natalie a gentle kiss to the back of the hand, Sumo snuffles close because he wants one, too.

And Hank gets a kick out of seeing his fiance lift a 200 pound dog like a baby and make loud kissy noises in their dining room. It’s a wild leap and bound from Connor being afraid, and thinking dogs weren’t allowed in the room. Now when he puts the big lug down, he asks after Sumo’s seat at the table. Insistent he should be allowed. They’ve already got him one.

The bounce in Connor’s step is full of joy.

He’s almost vibrating in his seat the entire time, when they settle in to watch the original Frankenstein. All of their decadent chairs and couches, mountains of popcorn, and Monty laughing when everyone startles at a scare, even a little bit.

They don’t expect trick-or-treaters, being so out of the way, but the first knock comes and Connor is beside himself with excitement and nervousness in equal. Beau shoves a bowl of candy into Connor’s hands and tells him to give a handful when they yell “trick or treat”, because little kids always get the treat. There’s a little sheet ghost at the door, with a pirate and a vampire, all with their sacks held out. Connor’s got stars in his eyes. And the kids adore his ‘costume’ too, they love when the grownups dress up too. Connor gives them extra candy, and Hank’s happy to know they’re a full-sized candy bar house. He thinks that also means they’re a big Christmas tree and winter holiday kind of family, a champagne on New Year's kind of family, and an all-out Valentine’s Day kind of family. He thinks. He can’t wait to find out.

“Hank, are you listening?” Connor’s saying, as he’s been wandering thinking about all the time they have together.

“I’m here, sweetheart.” he promises, and Connor melts into his embrace for a kiss to the forehead.

“Can you believe it? Children. Coming to this house, unafraid… For treats!” Connor praises. His father only loved holidays because they were good for business. But now their home is filled with genuine joy for celebration. “They said they liked my teeth!”

“They are some pretty pearly whites, bud.” Hank squeezes him close, feeling his own happiness surge, but feeling Connor’s too. It’s not just the chaotic feelings that spread through Hank’s bones, Connor leaks the pleasant ones now, too. “You’re so happy.”

“My heart is a furnace of warmth and affection.” He gives that hum low in his throat when he presses his nose against Hank’s jaw, nuzzling against his beard. It’s like his whole being preens like a cat in the sun, and Hank feels it trail along his body as if it were Connor’s familiar touch. “Do you think there will be more?”

Hank can’t resist finding out if he can laugh and kiss his soon-to-be husband at the same time.

With tradition, they start dinner when the oldest member of the party gets hungry. Connor gives his title to Beaumont for the sake of their guests. She gives him a really smug look for it, but she’s the baby and she gets treated specially. They bob for apples, Connor is obviously better suited than anyone else. They play handfuls of party games, hand out prizes, and pose for photos. When they dance, Richard tries to dance with everyone. He spends longer with his daughter than anyone and dips Elijah at the end of a song.

Beaumont announces that she’s hungry and they all go to the dining room. Connor has a moment of tears, seeing everyone gathered around his table with smiling faces. They debate what movie they’re going to watch next while they eat, they joke and laugh and talk, a full communal family dinner. Hank allows a little roast beef and mashed potatoes for Sumo, along with the medley of veggies and kibble. Richard shares stories from Halloween’s past, when people were much more superstitious, that most don’t believe he was actually there for. It’s a wonderful night. Connor wishes Amanda could see it.

Cole offers to help Hank clean up the dishes afterwards, so the two of them ferry fine china to the sink. They’re right in the middle of washing things up and talking about the good food they’ve had when Cole says out of the blue, “Will Connor need any blood bags for later?”

“You gave him his transfusion just the other day.” Hank says, wondering why he needs to remind Cole of it.

“Yeah, he just didn’t eat a lot for dinner.” Cole shrugs, putting leftovers into glass tupperware.

Hank gives him such a confused look, “He uh, he was too excited to eat.”

“I can believe that.” Cole nods.

He stares off into space for the longest moment while his son carries on normally, and feels the blasphemy bubbling up in his throat, “Why… would you ask like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like he’d be hungry.”

Cole slings him a look that says he’s being silly, “Because he’s a vampire.”

A sick feeling rumbles in his stomach and then evaporates. He lets out a deliriously relieved chuckle, “Yeah! Yeah, it’s a good costume, right?”

“The clothes are definitely festive, yeah.”

“And-And the teeth and contacts. Right?”

“It’s pretty fascinating how he does that. He can probably see in low light pretty well, huh?”

The feeling returns. “He… he’s got good eyesight.”

“Absolutely. He’s impeccably preserved. I brought some nice O-negative if he needs it.”

Hank feels himself get a little dizzy, “Cole, honey… He’s just got a condition.”

“Yeah, it’s called being a vampire.” Cole squints at two tupperware tops, trying to see which is bigger. “You don’t think I check his blood work? Or the lack of it. He’s got some interesting enzymes.”

He doesn’t have words. Once upon a time ago, he thought about telling Cole the truth when things were rough. When he was scared for Connor’s life. They managed to pull through without letting Cole in on anything huge. But he should have known Cole is smarter than that, and would dig to find conclusions. He is his father’s son. Hank doesn’t know what he should say next, what Cole’s thoughts are, the approach he should take. It fills him with a certain type of dread. Cole’s right, and he doesn’t have the heart to try to convince him otherwise. He doesn’t know where to begin, or what to ask after, or even start with.

All that comes out, as he settles heavy on a stool, is— “Fuck. Wh… Cole—”

“Hey, don’t go pale.” Cole squeezes his shoulder and reaches to grab him a cup of punch. He helps his father drink and shushes him softly. “You’re alright. Catch your breath, it’s okay.”

“You can’t tell anyone.” he chokes out.

“Who am I gonna tell?” Cole makes sure his breathing starts evening out, tapping against his shoulder with the beat his heart is supposed to carry. He’s done it so many times that Hank just follows it without full realization. “I’ve known for a while, doing yours and his blood work privately. You’re starting to show similar, but not the same, chemical compositions.”

“We are?”

“That’s the source of your good fortune, isn’t it? It’s him.” Cole asks, and Hank just nods. “Well… I can’t say it’s medically sound, but it’s working.”

“Richard lived for a long time, kid. Before he became an android, I mean. He was human.” he manages, trying to explain the situation now that Cole knows. “He lived to be over a hundred.”

Cole pauses a moment, Hank can see the wheels turning as it settles in. “If he keeps feeding from you… that’ll happen to you, too.”

“Is that okay?” he whispers, looking up at his son. “Everybody that can give to him, does. He just does it with me more often, that’s… He takes pain. It’s how he says thank you.”

It’s quiet between them for a very long minute. And Hank hates every second of it. He curls his fingers in the sleeve of Cole’s shirt, voice almost lost. “I’m sorry…”

He’s worried Cole thinks of this as a way of leaving him behind.

“You… You’re going to be there for me, for-for my future kids. For a really long time.” Cole tells him, voice soft and overwhelmed. He’d been prepared before, to live without his dad, to bury him. And now he’s being told it’s entirely different, that his father can have a good and exceptionally long life, after finding love again, and will someday be a very busy and active grandpa.

Hank promises himself he won’t cry when Cole hugs him so tightly it pops an ache in his shoulder. “I will. I will be, I promise. I’ll take care of all of you. That’s what I live for, kid.”

Cole laughs wetly against his shoulder, squeezing him again. “I’m still not gonna call Connor ‘dad’… Okay, maybe, like when I introduce him. But not in general. You know.”

Hank sputters with laughter, rubbing his son’s back. “I think that’s perfectly fine.”

“Fuckin’-A.” Cole murmurs when he pulls away, making sure his makeup hasn’t run. “This family…”

“It’s a little wild, huh? I’ve accepted it.” he smiles, taking a deep breath before he stands up. “How about we go join ‘em?”

They gather another round of popcorn to top everyone off, and Cole speaks up just before they leave the kitchen. “He’s aging, Pops.”

Hank misses it the first time, “What, honey?”

“He’s aging. Connor.” he says, “As in… He’s not frozen in time, or _undead_. I mean, he shaved it off for the party, but he was growing a beard. And medically, he’s alive and moving at a glacial pace, but… he’s aged since the transfusions started.”

Hank feels his whole chest stutter. “Bullshit.”

“Scout’s honor.” Cole tucks another candy bar in his pocket for Milo, and squeezes his father’s arm. He lets Hank look at him for a long moment, so it can sink in. He sees the moment it does, where his father lets himself believe it.

“Cole.”

“I know.” he nods, giving an encouraging smile. “I know, it’s a lot.”

Hank stands there paralyzed with the information.

“Will you come with me? When I pick out his ring. I want you to be there.” Hank asks, because he feels like it’s the only thing he can find the words to ask for. Everything else is confetti.

Cole doesn’t miss a beat, just chuckles and gives his old man a nod. “I’d love that.”

When he slides into his seat again, they’re a good portion into a vampire flick from 1945 and Connor is chatting incessantly with Francis, the two of them giggling to themselves. Probably about the movie and all its drama. He can’t resist slipping his arm around Connor and pulling them close on the couch, kiss planted lovingly against his cheek.

Connor chuckles and keeps a whisper through his delight, “Hello, my love. Aren’t you exquisite?”

“You didn’t hear? In the kitchen?” he asks, laying the popcorn bowl into Connor’s lap, extra kernels on the bottom the way he likes best.

Connor shakes his head, brow creasing softly. “What is it, Hank?”

Hank can’t explain now, there’s too much to say. So many surprises, so many good memories yet to be made that _will be_. He’s so smitten, such an old man in love. And the way Connor’s face softens is everything. “I love you.”

Connor’s shoulders scrunch happily with Hank’s lips finding all the best spots on his face to kiss, all while murmuring how loved he is. He once longed for the softness of a gaze, for acceptance and peace. And now it’s all he receives and more. He doesn’t know how he found this life, only he believes himself to be the luckiest man on the earth. He truly feels alive again.

And he thinks he’s done the same for Hank.

THE END.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, to everyone who read and followed along, who left a comment or shared their love for this story in any way. It's been wonderful to write and interact as much as I have, and to see all the love for the characters, especially!
> 
> While this is the end, I was inspired by a friend and have one more chapter to give for a character we... heard both good and bad about, but tragically could never see. I hope you'll enjoy it, too. 💗


	30. dear momentos, devoted hearts, and the rest of their lives

“Is this really like the place you found the deed?” Connor asks as they settle into their seats at the auction, Sumo wiggling his way between Hank’s knees. He fiddles with the little card they’ve given him and wonders what kinds they’ve to show off today. He wonders, just a little more, if he’ll see anything that used to belong to him. He’s not so bitter about it now. He didn’t have any use of trinkets and things for many years, and he’s glad other people would have gotten enjoyment out of them as he once did. That being said, he may bid on his own things if any are about.

Hank reaches over to adjust Connor’s chunky scarf, forever the doting husband. “Yep. I sat in the back and raised my hand _once_ , and I got… so much more than I thought.”

“That’s a very odd way to say I’m a handful, Mr. Anderson.” Connor bristles playfully, giving a little grin as he looks sideways.

“Apologies, Mr. Stern.” Hank chuckles, bringing Connor’s hand up to kiss his knuckles.

They look forward as the auctioneer comes up with the first item of the night, some beautiful vase from 1903 with an intricate pattern that's also been marked as radioactive due to uranium glass. What a banger to start out with, honestly… And Hank looks over at Connor warily, the both of them sharing the thought, ‘ _Holy shit, what about the glassware at home?_ ’

But the auction ramps up quickly, with people making cheerful bids. Connor watches it with a sense of odd wonder— People love things from the past. In his case, it’s very clear why, of course. But these people didn’t live in 1903, yet they covet these old, delicate things.

He guesses he’s lucky in that. Hank is a bit like that too— he wanted this old, delicate thing, even when it came with sharp teeth. He snorts to himself and reaches for Hank’s hand, shaking his head at the questioning hum thrown his way.

Next up is a hand-beaded Victorian lamp shade, and there’s a small awe among the crowd when they’re told the included lamp is, in fact, original. Connor looks around before leaning into Hank, “I think that lamp used to sit in my neighbor’s study.”

Hank huffs, “Don’t even start, you little shit.”

Connor feels his cheeks strain against his grin. He presses his nose to Hank’s cheek with barely restrained laughter, “Husband.”

“We don’t need it, right?”

“Heavens, no. We have three at home.”

Up after that is a complete tea set that’s rather ghastly, in Connor’s opinion. It has nothing to do with the fact that there’s silver inlay on it, of course not. Maybe a little. But a flock of Swallows emblazoned on the teapot? Terrible. Hank looks at him, for any reaction, and finds just the one he was thinking he’d get. They move on quickly, as it tends to happen— there’s a package of greeting cards that Connor is a bit tempted to try for, but lots of them feature birds and he’s wary of Hank’s phobia. He passes them by, realizing not much is truly grappling his attention. Which is a bit of a shame, because he asked to come here instead of attempting to see a movie in the theater. Granted, last time, he’d screamed himself sick and they had to leave, with the two of them starting to laugh in the alley outside while Connor thought he’d regretfully throw up his liquid lunch.

But Hank looks happy to be here with him, to share in some of the oohs and awws of the crowd and to lean Connor’s way for any quips or insightful information. Whenever he looks over, Hank’s smiling. There’s a painted elk statuette that Hank thinks is cool, and he bids a few times before letting the old man three rows down have it, because he keeps bidding against Hank the most like he really wants it. They have handpicked deer antlers on their wall, anyway, courtesy of one hungry Connor Stern. After that, it’s a weird fucking table with a little guard rail on it, that Connor says was fashionable.

The next piece takes three people to bring out and Connor’s just starting to think he won’t find anything he wants here. Then, they take the sheet from the item and Connor’s heart leaps into his throat.

“This painting was recovered from an unknown estate. The beautiful frame is hand carved and painted with 24 karat gold. The painting itself is dated back more than a hundred years, and features a woman and what seems to be twin boys. Perhaps a duchess or governess with her children. We’ll start the bidding…”

Connor’s ears are ringing. He knows his grip has gone lax on Hank’s hand and the auctioneer is still speaking, but all he can see like tunnel vision is the painting they’ve just put on display. A thousand things ripple through him, the wheres and _hows_ and—

“Connor?” Hank is squeezing his bicep, shaking him slightly. “Hey, Connor, that’s not…?”

“I remember that.” he says, and it’s like he’s not hearing his own voice, just feeling the rumble of it in his throat.

_There are people bidding_.

He’s out of his seat in an instant, his card raised and wavering to the point he has to brace on the chair in front of him. “I don’t care what amount you set, I will buy it.”

Everyone in the room turns to look at him. There’s currently four bids. The auctioneer gives a slightly flustered smile, “That’s not quite how auctions work, sir.”

“I have never attended one before, you must understand. But I will give anything for this portrait.” he explains, feeling Hank’s hand stabilize on his hip.

“It must mean a lot to you.” the auctioneer chuckles, prompting a few good-natured laughs joining in from the crowd. Like Connor's being silly.

“She’s…”

_My mother_.

“She does.” Connor tells this to the room like he’s confirming it to the world.

He remembers reading the words,

**My child. Like the sun on my cheek, I feel his love for me. My Connor. Richard, how could I forget his love? I fought tooth and nail to end his banishment, and only regret not fighting with blood, as well.**

He remembers hearing the words,

“Do you know how lucky I am to be your mother? To see you flourish into the man you’ve become, to see you vibrant and enveloped with knowledge and light? Even in the bad times. You would cry some midnights, my dear. And call out for your mother…” to hear her voice break, even just the slightest, “I would enter the room and there you were, with these big tears in your beautiful brown eyes, and reach for _me_. Saying ‘mother, mother’… The blessing, for I to be the one you call for. I have never since been so lucky than I am with you boys.”

“I will pay two-thousand more than the current bid,” Connor says, loudly and resolute. Her tenacity runs through his veins. And he turns to the crowd, to his opponent bidders, “And I will pay you all not to bid against me.”

The auctioneer turns to his assistant and asks uneasily, “Can he do that?”

“I am about to.” Connor states.

Hank watches the four other bidders share thoughtful looks, wondering if they’ll see the heart Connor’s so blatantly wearing on his sleeve. They don’t even _know_ how much. The elderly woman who bid last sets her card away and nods to Connor, “I’m certainly not going to enjoy it as much as this young man.”

Connor holds his breath as the three others seem to deliberate. A middle aged man, professor type, adjusts his glasses and shrugs, “I’d do fine with just a photo of it.”

“Give it to the boy.” The elderly man in front says, shooing the auctioneer on as if the decision is clearly made.

There’s a woman in the back, wearing sunglasses inside, who looks at Connor for a long moment before simply nodding to the auctioneer.

And the auctioneer, for all the confusion, just looks blankly towards the staff in the back before quietly tapping his gavel and saying, “Sold, to the young man in the scarf.”

Connor’s breath finally leaves him in a rush, all but falling back into his seat with a gentle, “Thank you.”

They’re aware he’s made a bit of a spectacle of himself, but Hank cups his cheek and nods in reassurance, whispering to soothe. “It’s alright. I know, I know. Don’t worry, you did it.”

“It’s her.” he breathes.

“I know.” Hank promises, resting his forehead to Connor’s temple as they slump back into their seats in an attempt to blend in again. They get up not too long after, when the coast is somewhat clear to do so, to go where they can see the painting up close.

Connor is already taking out his phone to dial Richard, not even a hello given. “Do you remember when we were small and mother put on that purple dress for the portrait she was getting done? She invited us and the artist wondered why she’d want children in her piece."

“Oh, yes. She only said that we were very good at holding still. Why?”

“Because I’ve just found it.”

Hank can’t hear much of the conversation after that, they’re passing people in the halls and it seems the items are being bought up quite quickly now. They find the right people to speak to and they’re able to get things together to provide their information. Connor has all his important (forged) papers now, so Hank takes a step back and tells Sumo they’ve got something really pretty to bring home.

Sumo offers the pockets on his vest with a purposeful little turn and Hank chuckles, rubbing his ears. “It’s a little too big for you to carry, baby boy.”

He vaguely hears the staff member say they’ll send the information through and then let Connor have a look at the painting before it’s packaged up again. Connor’s cool fingers rest on his shoulder and he looks up to see a splash of tenderness across his husband’s face. “Hey, Con.”

“Hello.” Connor whispers, still shaken but almost happily so. A few others are filling the space nearby, including the other bidders for Amanda’s portrait. Connor squeezes him lightly, “I’ll be just a moment.”

The elderly woman meets him first, dressed from head to toe in lavender tones, with a delighted smile. “Well, that was exciting!”

“Thank you.” Connor says as the four gather around. “It was probably a bit rowdy of me, but I can’t say I regret it.”

It earns him a group chuckle, except from the woman in sunglasses. She’s put on a hat and coat since coming out of the auction room, like she's ready to leave at any second. The professor extends a hand so they can shake and unfortunately Connor isn’t wearing his gloves, but the air has turned crisp, so it’s easily excused. “Are you a collector?”

“Of a sort.” Connor gives, with a measured smile. He shakes the other man’s hand and kisses the back of Ms. Lavender's hand, because he thinks she hasn’t been given the gesture in many years. Very improper of everyone. “You’re still very welcome to take your photos.”

He fishes out his wallet and offers them each a new hundred dollar bill. A few won’t take it until he insists, or makes the even bigger offer to pay for an item they’ve won tonight. They filter into the room to see what they’ve let Connor have one after the other, while Connor is still gently insisting to the woman in sunglasses. She takes him by the wrist, which surprises him somewhat, and their skin lingers for much longer than he’d let a stranger. But, he realizes… the way she smells. Human, yes, but.

She smells like Hank. She smells like Beaumont. She smells like Richard used to. Very alive and very human and very warm, but… not entirely unchanged. He tries to look at her more closely. She looks older than at first glance, her hair is a bottled amber, her earrings are heavily vintage. He can feel her eyes on him. “That’s a very old portrait.”

“Yes. Over a hundred years, they said.” he parrots, very aware still of their point of contact.

“That woman is very important to you.” She’s searching, however it is gentle. Her fingertips tighten just so on his pulse point. “And those children. It’s a beautiful family.”

Connor is quiet for a very long moment, and he can hear Hank shuffle a step closer. He dips his head and very deliberately says, “Thank you.”

“You…” She seems at a loss for a moment.

“Her name was Amanda.”

“And the one with the brown eyes?”

“Connor.” he provides, something tender in his voice.

“Connor.” she echoes.

He gently settles his hand over hers, and sees the way she stops a flinch. “If you care for the painting that much, you may inquire about it… or see it, whenever you’d like.”

He slips one of his cards from his wallet, the ones that say _Connor Anderson, Historian_ and have his phone number on them. He settles it with the hundred dollar bill and carefully folds it into her hand. She doesn’t raise her head to say, "It says you work nights.”

“No rest for the wicked, is that not what they say?”

“You don’t _seem_ wicked.”

“Thank you, some histories tried to tell me so.”

She leaves without looking at the painting, but that’s just as well. Hank comes to press a kiss to his cheek when she departs, looking at him warily. “You okay, bud? What’d she say?”

He adjusts his cuff and finds his gloves to slip back into, “Do you remember when I told you about the night I changed?”

“Honey, I couldn’t forget that.” Hank rubs across his shoulder blades with practiced ease.

“Perhaps he led longer meals than me.” He looks towards the door for the woman but she’s already gone.

He pulls Hank in the direction of the painting instead. He doesn’t look at it in an emotional way, because he’d spend hours that they don’t have just sitting here. The professor takes his photos and they talk lightly about the preservation and quality of the painting. The frame and canvas themselves are in very good shape, like it sat hidden away for many years. Connor knows it will never be hidden away again, and he’s eager to get it home.

Connor and one of the staff take it out to the car even though the auction house offered to deliver it to their home the next day. They’re not willing to wait. It gently gets packed into the very back of the station wagon, where Sumo’s doggy bed and winter blankets cushion it in, and Connor sits in the back seat to keep watch of it on the way home.

“I’d never seen the completed painting.” he says to Hank, as they drive along the calm streets.

“They didn’t let you?”

“Not in that way. We stayed still for all that time, and then had our photo taken. Portraits sometimes took longer than you were willing to sit for in a given day, and artists would take it away to work on. I think… Perhaps we forgot about it, Richard and I. Mother might have seen it, but it wasn’t put up in the house.” He shrugs, one hand on it from over the seat. “I remember we were so excited, though. It was an event. We weren’t supposed to be there, but she was quick to beckon us close.”

“She loved you.” Hank says, as easy as anything now.

“Like nothing else.” he agrees, resting his head back.

Richard’s car is already at home when they pull up and he all but flings himself from the back seat to get around the car to meet him. “When I tell you again that fate is making things up to me, brother—”

“I always say I believe you, but this time I have to see.” Richard says eagerly, dipping to peer into the back seat, “Do you have it with you?”

“As if I wouldn’t.” Connor scoffs, leading his brother around to the back. They both shuffle it into the house with Hank holding the door open, bringing it into the living room.

“Will you _finally_ replace my portrait with this?” Richard asks with hope in his voice.

Hank snorts, “Hell no, people get a real kick out of seeing that angry brow when they walk in.”

“My brow is not angry.” Richard says, with the Angry Brow on.

Connor smiles, patting Richard’s cheek as they start to unpackage the painting. “It’s a strong brow.”

When Richard sets eyes on the painting, he slowly lowers himself to his knees and rests his hands on the edges of the frame. “Oh, the memories.”

Connor crouches to rest his arms around Richard and lay his head on his shoulder. “Do you remember sitting with her?”

“Like yesterday. I felt so important there with her… The fabric of her dress was soft, it was special, and she looked so beautiful.”

“I remember her perfume… made from her roses in the garden.”

“Do you recall her humming? Maybe an hour in, she started humming to us. I wonder if it was to calm my fidgeting.”

“I do! Oh, I wish I remembered the song.”

Hank watches them there on the floor with a sense of fondness, reminiscing over their mother. Richard shifts, just so, then a gentle and melodic sound begins. It’s a little dreamy sounding, the humming, in a rich feminine voice. Connor stiffens and then he’s turning, grabbing for his brother’s hand.

“Richard.” he whispers, almost in question, looking at Richard’s palm display as it holds an old faded memory.

“I remember.” Richard whispers back, watching his display fondly as his perspective shifts to look up at their mother, then to a very young Connor, who looks more pink-cheeked than Hank has ever seen him.

“I didn’t know you could do this.” Connor’s throat is tight as he speaks, and Richard pulls him into a one-armed hug, folding him against his chest.

“Damn, Rich.” Hank says gently, coming in close to rest a hand on Richard’s shoulder.

Richard just smiles up at Hank in that gentle way that he does, and it still looks a little surreal not to see a bunch of old man wrinkles pull at his skin. They listen to Amanda as a family while her portrait sits gently at the end of the couch, and when the memory fizzles away, Richard speaks quietly into the new silence. “I didn’t know she held that smile long enough for it to be painted.”

“That’s the face of a mother who loves her children.” Hank promises with a squeeze to Richard’s shoulder, “I would know.”

Connor smiles peacefully. “We’ll put it up tomorrow.”

And when tomorrow comes, Connor makes sure the frame is clean of any lingering dirt or fingerprints. It’s already preserved, and Hank takes some time to reinforce the hook that’ll hold it, and to protect the edges where it’ll press against the wall. They’re going to go see Charles soon, where his nephew has promised cigars and authentic French food, and Connor takes the time beforehand to select a good spot for Amanda’s adoring smile.

In the end, he chooses the empty space between his and Richard’s bedroom doors. Anyone coming through the front door could see Richard, of course, but now they can look up further and see her, too. And he can see her every day, whether he’s leaving his own or Hank’s room. It’s out of direct sunlight and will be lovingly lit by the chandelier.

He wonders if his mother would be proud of his life. He’s as healthy as he can be. He’s happily married and deeply in love. He’s taking care of his brother in the ways he can— Richard doesn’t get very cold anymore but he’s learning simple maintenance from handbooks in case Richard gets his version of ill. He even has a child, in a sense. Cole may be an adult, but he’s so spectacularly young in many ways, and he and Connor growing closer has included some of the traditional fare— like him tucking Cole into bed, not because he’s played out in the garden far too late, but because he’s turned a double shift and is dead on his feet, in need of tucking in and being given a snack.

He loves with all of his heart and hasn’t been afraid in quite some time. Sumo even got him over his lesser fear of dogs, and now he takes the sweetheart to dog parks with dozens of other dogs running about. He has a world filled with light and so much family to give his time and energy to. He feels like the person he’s supposed to be. He wishes he could tell her how he doesn’t have to hide all the parts of himself he used to, and that she wouldn’t have to, either. Her intelligence, her talent, her cleverness. He thinks about her sometimes, as if she had made it here with him and Richard, of her in overalls with her knees in the dirt as they plant more rose bushes.

Oh, the warmth. “You think we should have more roses?”

As easy as anything, the worn colors of the wallpaper infuse with vibrancy. The soft LED smart bulbs Hank put in fade back into their candles and brand new Edison bulbs, the little buzz of them comforting. There’s the chill in the absence of 2050’s insulation but he isn’t cold at all, easily warm gathered in his town clothes. Oh, the warmth of a memory, indeed.

He looks over the railing as he gathers his bag, smile at the edges of his mouth. “Ever since you taught me how to avoid the thorns, I haven’t been afraid of them.”

“Oh, my dear. You sometimes say the sweetest things, all before noon.” Amanda hums, peering back down as she tries to affix the last pin into the style at the back of her head. She’s picked out the green dress, deep color in velvet with all the ruffles at the bustle. He’s happy to have been on her wavelength, the green in his checkered pants almost match.

“I always endeavor to, mother.” he promises as he stops at the last step to find the pin in her hands and secure the last braid for her. “And you say I take a year to get ready.”

She gives him a playfully reprimanding look, “Quiet, now. Just you wait until you’re married, they’ll be telling you the same thing. It’s not just because I’m your mother and enjoy keeping time, it’s because you take _a year_ to presentably join the world.”

She’s ushering them out the door soon after, into the horse drawn carriage that’s been waiting for them. They settle in and he holds her violin case so she can fuss with her gloves. It’s a truly beautiful day, the sun bright but without heat from protective clouds.

He watches the trees as they go by and smiles distantly, “You truly believe I’ll be married one day?”

“Of course I do. You love love, I have no doubt you’ll find it.”

“Finding love is different from being married.”

“I suppose that is true.” she leverages, “But marriage is not just the celebration you have, nor the papers you sign your name.”

He raises his brows a mere inch, considering this. She turns a bit serious.

“Even if you married without the church, and without the courthouse, as long as your devotion was sure… it would be enough.”

“Father would be a mess to hear you speak like that.” he says, with a hint of conspiratory edge.

She simply shrugs. “He is often a mess already, my love.”

They share a soft smile. The carriage jostles slightly at the change in road. “But you didn’t mention children.”

“While I love you and Richard with all my heart, I know some don’t revel in the idea of children. Of course I would open my arms to any grandchildren I’d be gifted, but I wouldn’t give it necessity.”

“But marriage, you do.”

“A devoted heart, Connor. Yes, I do.”

He can’t hold her earnest gaze for more than a few moments and tries to get away from it. “Richard will give you grandchildren.”

“Ah, you believe so?”

He nods. “He’s a gentleman, and a gentle man. He would make a good father.”

“Don’t think yourself beyond capable, even if it’s not wanted.”

He gives a sweet-tempered smile so he doesn’t have to respond.

The carriage brings them into town and where they stop is unfortunately on an odd divot in the street. Connor steps down from the carriage and wraps his arm around Amanda’s waist to lift her down, instead of having her step with difficulty or jump. He knows she’s gotten used to father not helping her, but he won’t have it. She laughs and holds his shoulders, and for good measure he leans to the side and twirls them around.

“Connor! You are in good spirits today!” Amanda praises as he settles her back down. She’s reminded of how tall he’s grown at times like these, how perhaps she’s lost an inch or two with age.

“I feel wellness in the air.” he says as he tips the driver and then offers his arm to his mother. “Richard is supposed to be back from his artist’s retreat, Marlan promised my favorite dish for dinner—”

“How did you bribe him to do that?” she teases, “It’s supposed to be a meal for your brother.”

He just grins, lowering his voice as she leads the way. “ _And_ , soon I will hear the beautiful music my mother has written.”

They walk the streets for many minutes before ducking into an alleyway and following the side street, until they emerge at the back entrance of the local theatre. Amanda lets him go first, holding the door while she takes a last look around.

“Do you think they really need me for this practice?” He lets himself be a little self-conscious as they step inside.

“Do you still remember those few little tunes your Englishman taught you?” She smiles and takes his hand to lead them on.

He thinks fondly of Theodore and that grand white piano, time he wouldn’t forget. “Of course, mother.”

“Then you will do just fine.”

Many know that Amanda Stern is the best for miles when it comes to a truly blessed ear for music. People always say she should compose for ceremonies and plays, instead of only pulling out her violin for dinner parties. That her music should reach more ears, soothe more hearts. And usually someone, a man or one more wealthy or one with just enough audacity, insinuates that a wife shouldn’t outshine her husband - or a mother, or an older woman, or a woman of color. That it would somehow be unbecoming to benefit from her music more than enjoyment. That’s usually when Connor would light a match and put it in the asshole’s brandy to teach them to have manners, and ask his mother for another song to soothe their weary souls.

For all he sees her bite her tongue and gentle her face and unclench her fist, and only _ever_ when it suits her to, it gladdens his soul evermore to see her like this. Now, as she almost jumps to go that little bit faster, walking onto an unmade stage with no audience, to meet the small company that she’s secretly provided her musical talent and love. Because she wants to see their play succeed, even with its little funding, and they all know her music can help them along.

So, Connor sits at the piano bench when told to, and reminds his mother that in her music, he can feel her love. And she, in turn, promises he will be just fine with his small knowledge of the keys before him, and she will hear beauty regardless. He’s not sure he believes her as much as he did when he was a child, but Amanda often says things that way. Things that people could reason away with ‘she’s your mother, she has to say that to you’. When her words actually mean, ‘It doesn’t matter if you’re not good at it— if you’re doing it with love and feel happiness from it, that is why it’s beautiful’. She cuts down the words needed to say it, and Connor has learned that as he has learned all the other things about her, with immense care for the woman who chose him as a son.

“What will you find yourself doing with the rest of your day?” she asks as they leave, “If you’re free of obligations after meeting Richard, we could go to the beach. Find seaweed to scrapbook.”

“You don’t want to stay at home and play Snapdragon?” he grins. He’ll have to change his clothes for the beach, but he was going to change anyway to fetch Richard from the train station.

“Perhaps for your thirtieth birthday.” Her grimace leaves a bit to be desired but the laugh makes him think he’s got a chance at getting his way.

“That’s years from now! Oh, mother, will you love me when I’m such an old, decrepit wisp of a man?”

“What’s that to say about me then, Connor?”

“We both know that you are timeless.”

_Timeless_ , he thinks to himself. _If only she’d gotten to be._

“Connor?” The heat of the midmorning sun and the smell of spring fades from his senses, as Hank’s voice filters into his ears. “We’re gonna be late, Charles says he’s already makin’ crêpes… Hey honey, where are you?”

“I’d like to go to the beach someday, I think.” he says, gently stepping away from the portrait and memory alike. It looks sturdy, it’s perfectly set, and he’s satisfied. Feels warm in his heart. He turns to see his husband at the foot of the stairs with soft eyes, as he often finds him with those eyes, as the look is all for him.

“Well, hey. I think I’d like that, too.” Hank promises, coming up a few stairs for the express purpose of meeting Connor a scant second earlier, to be able to hold his hand as he walks down. “Something you were thinking about?”

He nods, setting the toolbox down as Hank gets his coat. “I’d enjoy looking for seaweed again.”

“Seaweed?”

“To scrapbook it, of course.”

Hank gives him one of those looks, one that says he really doesn’t understand but accepts another weird thing that people from Connor’s time used to do. “Of course. Naturally.”

“It’ll be very fun, you’ll see.” He manages to catch Hank in a quick kiss while shrugging into his coat.

“I’ll be there with an umbrella every second.” Hank coos, pulling him closer by the lapel for one more smooch. “But honey, dear, sweetheart— _the crêpes._ ”

“Yes, yes!” Connor flutters his hands at Hank to hurry up and grab his keys. Though, he stops them at the door, to take a look at the foyer one more time. “It does look nice, don’t you think?”

Hank gives Richard’s portrait a fond look, then tips his head up higher to see Amanda. He doesn’t think he’d ever tell Connor, but he really hopes she would have approved of him. Found him worthy of Connor. “It’s perfect, bud. Like she’s supposed to be there, keepin’ watch.”

Connor smiles. “Exactly so.”

Hank lets him stand there holding him at the waist for only another moment before giving him a gentle shake, “Bud… Flower bud, the _crêpes._ Your nephew’s waiting on _us_ , Cole’s already there.”

“Yes, dearest! Family and crêpes!” Connor snorts and drags his hood up as they all but race out the door, more family to see.

Connor wonders if his mother would be proud of his life. Of what he has. Of whom. She wanted the world for him, even when he was sure he couldn’t take it. Now he has all of the world he wants, feelings gone from him returned tenfold. Hank wonders if the most important woman in Connor’s life would approve of him. Of his worthiness. Of his steady heart. He doesn’t know that he is everything she outlined, his care and his tenderness and his devoted heart. Both of their long lives lead them here, every triumph and every failure— after all the paralyzing cold, it’s led them into the gentleness of a truly warm life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was inspired by [this wip from my friend Sana](https://twitter.com/bigDBHenergy/status/1318079748485033986), of Amanda and the boys' portrait.


End file.
